


The False Divides

by DanceWithMeForScience



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Mirror Universe, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Suicidal Thoughts, love in a fascist regime, stabbyboos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:21:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23145340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DanceWithMeForScience/pseuds/DanceWithMeForScience
Summary: In the mirror universe, Hugh and Paul have already sacrificed so much just to survive. But when they meet, and get to know each other, they discover what it means to sacrifice for another person, and what it means to sacrifice for a cause.
Relationships: Hugh Culber/Paul Stamets, Mirror Hugh Culber/Mirror Paul Stamets
Comments: 43
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> At long last, I am beginning to show this MU fic to the world. Thanks to all the mirror Culmets fans for inspiration and support. 
> 
> This story does contain quite a bit more of, let's say, Mirror Universe-typical content than my usual writing. This includes non-explicit sexual content, suicidal thoughts/ideation, reference to sexual assault from authority figures (nothing explicit), drug use, violence and murder, people being general total messes, and probably some other things. Please take care of yourself regarding those topics.

_Cmdr.Culber: I got some odd fungal samples from a recent patient. Would you be able to come down to the medbay to check them out? (1252)_

_Lt.Stamets: You said the secret password: odd fungal samples. I should be able to stop by around 1630. (1301)_

_Cmdr.Culber: Appreciated. (1302)_

Hugh lets out a shaky breath. He and Paul have been running into each other in the mess hall regularly over the past week, to the point that he wonders if they’ve _both_ been planning around each other’s schedules. It was time to take the next step – right?

Although the mycologist has been catching his eye for a few months now, there was never any reason to approach him. When the mess was particularly crowded about a month ago, though, the only open seat was in front of Paul, and Hugh wasn’t too hesitant to take it.

A perfunctory hello turned into a deep dive discussion of fungal infections, each of them growing cautiously more enthusiastic at their obvious connection. There are very few people who don’t set off Hugh’s alarm bells in under five minutes. Honestly, the sheer novelty of the situation completely disarmed his normal caution, and he was late back to the medbay, earning him a scowl and a warning from his supervisor.

They passed each other a couple more times in the mess. And then in the past week it’s been three times they’ve been there at the same time. Each time they sit down purposefully with each other, discussing mostly science, but with an easy snarkiness, without malice or underlying threats.

Paul eyes him with a bewitching intensity, practically studying him. Hugh likes the attention, the way Paul smirks at him, those big blue eyes. Plus, Paul asks him a lot of questions. _Where did you study? What’s the most interesting thing you learned this year? How much can you lift?_ Hugh had enjoyed the stunned expression Paul wore when he’d only flexed his bicep under his uniform.

Every fiber of Hugh’s being is vibrating with two simultaneous, conflicting messages.

  1. _Do not get involved._
  2. _I want him._



He hasn’t made it here by letting feelings get in the way of his work. He dates in secret, when he does - brief uninvolved flings to dispel the monotony and fear of daily life, always fading with a change in leadership in their departments, a transfer, an assassination.

He _does_ have those odd fungal samples. It can just be a professional meeting, a chance to talk with Paul more, to see those blue eyes up close, maybe to brush their fingers together as he hands Paul a sample, maybe to feel those lips on his, maybe to take off their clothes and press-

As he turns to reserve the satellite examination room, Hugh full well knows how bad an idea this is. And he’s going to do it anyway.

"I prefer to cut plants, not people," Paul says warily, watching Hugh's graceful hands angle his scalpel, miming his surgical technique. Perhaps he shouldn’t have asked about the equipment on the examination cart. “I don’t like blood.”

"This isn't for killing someone." Hugh smiles reassuringly at Paul, a trace of something almost predatory in his grin. "It’s for surgery. Minimum pain, minimum bloodshed."

Paul shivers. That low voice is beyond seductive.

There's a flash of softness in Hugh's expression before it's replaced by a knowing smirk. "Would you rather we discuss something else?" he says, his voice pitched deeper than usual. He places the scalpel carefully back on the cart as he approaches to within arm’s reach of Paul.

"Whatever," Paul scoffs indignantly, trying to maintain his composure, shifting uncomfortably on his feet as he backs up a step and finds himself against the window. His breathing is shallow, and he can’t control it. Oh, he _likes_ this.

"I mean, if I wanted to cause pain," Hugh continues, taking another step closer, "I could elicit _exactly_ the desired response from anyone.” He pauses. “ _Anyone_ I want." He's almost purring.

Paul's breath catches in his throat.

The corners of Hugh’s eyes crinkle as he reaches up to trail a finger down Paul's jaw line. "Just like that," he says as Paul exhales shakily, limbs heavy but tingling with the rush of adrenaline Hugh’s touch produces.

Hugh seems to read his thoughts, now standing just centimeters from Paul's body, fixing his gaze with an intense, burning stare, that sly smile making Paul's knees weak. "Don't worry. I don't want to hurt you... _unless you want me to_."

All Paul can hear is the sound of their breathing. He's not breathing hard, but every breath feels hard-won, as the weight of what has just happened settles on him along with Hugh’s body. 

Hugh's warm skin against his is oddly soothing, but gone all too soon, as Hugh pushes himself upright to grab a couple small towels for them from the nearby cart, tossing one to Paul.

When Paul's cleaned himself up, he sees Hugh's already fully dressed again, pulling on his breastplate. He's also put his customary mask back on, that wary face that Hugh wears around the ship. The return of the sternness in his eyes feels like whiplash. But Paul shouldn't be surprised. Why is he surprised?

_Because there's clearly more to this than your usual hookup_ , his brain helpfully supplies, and the searing memories of the way Hugh looked into his eyes as he held Paul's hands against the floor while he fucked him, the incredible softness of his lips, the strange gentleness with which he kissed up and down his neck…

"You should go." Hugh's voice is clipped. "It'll look suspicious if I keep the door locked much longer."

Paul shimmies back into his uniform, shifting onto his knees to zip it back up.

The mask drops. "That's a good place for you to be. On your knees." Almost a whisper.

Paul is unable to suppress a shiver even as he rolls his eyes and fights back a smile. He grabs his breastplate from the floor and stands. "I thought we were done here.”

The left edge of Hugh's lips curls. "I thought I might leave you with an idea for next time."

_Next time_. His heart beats faster, already anticipating. There will be a next time.

And then he squashes it. Because the Empire always has other plans for him, and this was already a terrible idea – Hugh is far too close to him for safety’s sake.

Paul’s panic miscommunicates to Hugh, whose lips set firm before he turns to his console. "Of course, you're not... required to return," he says.

"No," Paul hastily corrects himself. "I meant..." _What did I mean? Shit._ "I wouldn't mind a next time. Schedule depending, of course."

"My comm is open," Hugh says, not looking up from where he appears to be working in earnest now.

Suddenly this feels like every other time Paul has done this, the brief respite gone, the uncertainty returning. Has he given away too much power? Will Hugh turn this against him?

He can't help but sneer now, as he walks out of Culber's lab without another word. It’s just that, another moment, one that he will have to place firmly in the past, in his memory, to be taken out and admired when he can no longer handle what his duties require of him.

A week passes while Paul mulls over his encounter with the doctor. As much as he wants to fling himself into the mycelial drive, the thoughts of the man are putting an annoying spring in his step. Of course, he couldn’t possibly jump into the drive and have it get any results, since it’s been offline for over a week.

In any case, waking up in the morning does not consistently paralyze him with dread. But all he can do is accept that feeling. He can’t afford to let his guard down again. He’s let too many people into his life who have put him in danger.

Even his assistants are starting to wonder what’s with his comparatively good mood, and that _must_ stop. He fishes around in his desk for his vial of poison genetically engineered from mugato venom. With the help of an aerosolizer, he sprays a small amount of the poison into the lab’s air circulation system before he heads over to the mess for a late lunch. This will ensure that his assistants will be off sick for at least a couple days with fatigue and dizziness.

He’s relieved not to see Hugh at the mess. Granted, he chose to go to lunch late specifically to try to avoid the man. He eats alone, at the end of a long table, lost in a padd full of reports while he mechanically consumes replicated slop.

Upon returning to the lab, his assistants claim illness and request hesitant permission to go to the medbay. He scowls, letting them go with an irritated hand wave. “When you’re done lying about with these imagined illnesses, you’d better make this worth my time. We’re behind schedule,” he calls after them. The doors hiss shut, leaving him in blessed silence.

He falls into a rhythm, cleaning the remnants of the morning’s failed experiment of a bioweapon against Tellarites. The skin cell samples barely reacted, a major disappointment that hopefully he isn’t going to have to explain to the emperor. But since she’s focused on the drive right now, and the engineering crew is working on it today without him, he thinks he’ll be okay today.

Preparing another round of samples takes the rest of the afternoon and into the evening. But when he finally exits the lab shortly after 1930, he comes face to face with Hugh. Has he been _waiting_?

“I thought we were going to follow up on those fungal samples from last week.” His voice is firm, his expression stern.

“I’ve been busy,” Paul replies, as evenly as he can.

“Are you busy now?”

Paul assesses Hugh: still in uniform, deep red fabric contrasting with his golden brown skin, the breastplate gleaming. He’s standing stiffly, but his hands are at his sides and seemingly empty. His eyes are puffy, maybe from exhaustion. Against his better judgement, Paul invites him in. “I have time now, if you want to discuss my research.”

Hugh dips his head slightly, and they retreat back into Paul’s lab, where Paul can activate more safeties. He makes the appropriate preparations and turns back to Hugh.

“For now, we’re not being monitored,” Paul says.

Hugh makes a point of looking Paul fully up and down, slowly, then locking eyes with him. Paul shivers, though the room is warm. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“So have I. But I’m not busy now. I thought you wanted a next time.”

“Maybe it’s better if we-” Paul begins uneasily. Then his chest tightens. Honesty is a trap, surely Hugh knows this. He’s not naive. “I enjoyed our meeting,” he says shortly.

“But.”

His heart rate spikes, and he gestures, at what, for what, is anyone’s guess. “Low blood sugar,” he blurts. “I need to go eat. Can we talk another time?”

“Perhaps we won’t need to,” says the doctor acridly, and strides from the room.

Paul heaves a sigh. “Good work,” he grumbles to himself as he disengages his safety measures. He should feel relieved, but he’s depressed. The issue of the doctor has been decided. There’s no way for Paul to endanger himself now.

Hugh spends the evening in an uncharacteristic anger. He should know better than to let Paul ruin his evening. He should know better than to date with feelings attached. He did know better once, and now he’ll redouble his efforts.

After downing a protein shake in lieu of dinner (he’s too angry to stomach solid food), he goes to the gym. Lifting weights under the appreciative eyes of less fit colleagues is usually good for a small ego boost.

Yet, as he begins his final set of bench presses, he doesn’t want to be watched. The thought of eyes on him makes him feel cornered. He racks the bar and stands up, grabbing for his towel to wipe his eyes and forehead.

“You’ve made a lot of progress since the last time I ran into you here.”

Hugh tries not to groan out loud. The last person he wants to see right now is Deshaun, a junior interrogator, an occasional workout partner, and a very occasional hookup.

Hugh lets the towel drop onto the floor, gazing down at dark brown eyes in a lean face that, he notes, is looking a lot leaner than the last time he saw Deshaun, maybe even a bit sickly pale, brown skin with a grayish undertone. He has bags under his eyes. The life of a junior interrogator is very hard – that’s how Hugh ended up in medicine.

“I’m working off a lot of stress,” Hugh says, in a tone that he hopes communicates his total disinterest in talking.

Deshaun rubs the top of his shaven head nervously. “It’s been a while since I heard from you, Hugh. You want to…?”

“It’s not a good time,” Hugh cuts him off, crouching to retrieve the towel. “I have to go.”

It’s only when he’s back in his quarters, under the hottest shower he can stand, that he realizes the irony of turning down someone who actually *wants* his company, in an uncomplicated way with no feelings involved, because he’s too angry about a man with whom everything will be complicated.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder of general trigger warnings again, particularly for implied/referenced sexual assault and suicidal ideation.

The emperor calls Hugh in a couple mornings later, into her quarters. He’s never been invited there.

The decor is even more opulent in her rooms. Gold trim in a garish pseudo-Roman fashion lines every dark red or black wall. The windows are hung with gold and red draperies. A false fire burns in a false fireplace. He’s never gotten used to the pageantry of the upper levels of the Terran Empire, so unlike his own life on Earth before he joined up.

A Kelpien servant is trying to disappear into the background, but they never can. Those strange gangly limbs, the bland blue-gray clothes – they always stand out. He tries not to look.

The emperor wears a black and gold brocade robe, sitting in a plush red armchair near the fire. A platter of hors d’oeuvres sits before her on a low round table.

“Mr. Culber,” she greets him.

“Emperor.” He bows as deeply as he can. The yoga he added to his weightlifting routine _has_ helped.

“Have a seat.” She motions to the smaller armchair on the other side of the table.

“Thank you, Emperor.” He sits on the edge of the chair, back straight, schooling his face into an obedient, expectant expression.

“I understand you approached Mr. Stamets about a human fungal infection you encountered in the medbay.”

He pauses to replay her words in his head, and a lump forms in his throat. He’s really under that much surveillance? What does she want? Was the surveillance in the lab more complicated than Paul’s safety measures? Does she know —

“I have heard that you two are forming a friendship.”

Hugh swallows. “Not really, Emperor. We’ve had some meals together.”

“I’m afraid I shall have to differ with you there. Mr. Stamets does not typically respond to messages quickly. He almost never returns my messages within the hour. And yet yours are returned almost instantaneously. This can hardly be coincidental.”

_How could I have been so careless? I should have used a secure channel. I should have just left him alone._

“Now I need you to keep an eye on him for me. I am most interested in what occupies Mr. Stamets’ free time. I suspect he may be engaging in unauthorized research. Report back if you hear anything I ought to know. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Emperor,” he says automatically, “of course, Emperor.”

“So good of you to help me, _papi_ ,” she says almost sweetly, as if he could refuse. The use of the endearment turns his stomach. And then her expression shifts, her eyes flicker hungrily over him, still sitting upright in the armchair. He fights back the urge to curl into himself protectively. “Perhaps we can cement our working relationship with… a little fun.”

There’s nothing within him, nothing at all, that could compel him to stay. If he stays, he will not be able to do what she wants. If he refuses, perhaps his life is forfeit.

But better to disappoint her up front than to anger her later.

He marshals his most gentle, obedient servant tone. “You’re very gracious, Emperor. However, I ought to show up on time for my shift. I don’t want to get anyone’s attention about where I’ve been this morning.” It’s a true story, perhaps an excuse she will accept.

Her motionless pause sets his adrenaline flowing. Finally, she nods. “You’re dismissed, Commander Culber.”

He backs away for a few steps while maintaining a low bow, before turning for the door.

His limbs turn unbearably heavy the moment the chamber doors seal shut behind him. What has he been recruited into? How is he still alive? Can he please her enough to stay alive? But he puts one foot in front of the other until he’s rounded the corner, beyond the view of the emperor’s personal guard.

Hugh closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths. He has to muster the fortitude to act normally. First, the mess, for a large cup of coffee. He’ll need it for a long day of treating interrogator’s thumb and a never-ending list of “accidents,” workplace injuries, and occasional legitimate illness. All the while, he will have to act like he’s not just been made the emperor’s spy against the man who turned his entire life upside down just by existing near him.

A few nights after Paul turned Hugh away in his lab, the emperor called for Paul in her quarters. At the best of times, and with the right chemical aids, he can almost tolerate her insipid questions, her vain displays of power, her manipulation. He can pretend something else is happening.

This is not the best of times. He leaves those hideous rooms nauseous, angry, and ashamed, unable to keep from rubbing his fingers together restlessly as he strides for the turbolift.

He believes this is the price he _chooses_ to pay for continued research support, when he joined the empire - stomaching all the indignities of military life and relenting to the desires of power because he needs to keep his own power.

He could have stayed on Earth or on Deneva, eking out a living in mycology in a low-budget lab, living a normal life. But Straal wanted it all. And Paul let himself be swept away by those dreams and his own ambition for knowledge.

Uncle Everett, Lieutenant Everett Stamets, had died in a failed attack on an Andorian settlement many years ago. Paul had seen how the loss of his little brother haunted his father. His mother had narrowly missed the qualifications to join, but she’d come to be grateful for that youthful disappointment, especially after Everett’s death. “The military is no place for a Stamets,” she’d warned him.

But Paul wanted more.

And where Straal had at last failed, catastrophically, Paul had succeeded. He’d put aside every last shred of doubt, speaking up, criticizing the vanity and hubris of his deceased partner, and thereby seizing his own power and acclaim. The empire gave him promotion after promotion, but always at a price, always in trade for some piece of his time, pride, or dignity.

He sighs once the lift doors have closed and he’s careening through the ship to his deck and section.

Now he continues to see the emperor, despite how unsettling it is, because there’s nothing that brings him peace but his work. And he can’t leave the empire and expect to be able to continue his work, if he even survived the discharge process.

_There’s no way out but death._

In the past, the phrase was motivation to survive and thrive, not to avoid challenges but to surmount them.

Now if he takes too long to think, the _but death_ part starts to sound relaxing. He wouldn’t have to look over his shoulder constantly, poison his subordinates, drug himself before seeing the emperor, rewrite his research notes in secret. Refuse Hugh’s attention.

The lift doors slide open. He wants to run back to his quarters, but of course this would arouse someone’s suspicion, or be noted in some file. So he walks. When the doors are locked behind him, the soundscreen is up, and his sensor sweep is complete, he gives himself a hypospray from the instrument on the table next to his bed. He peels off his uniform gingerly, as if it will contaminate him further.

When he gets into the shower, he slides all the way down to the floor, orders the water to warm, and lets the medicine take his consciousness away from him. Some part of him hopes he might never retrieve it again.

_Cmdr.Culber: Any luck with those fungal samples? (0932)_

_Cmdr.Culber: Never mind, I’ll come see you. (1503)_

Now Paul doesn’t answer his messages, and of course Hugh knows why.

Hugh will have to use his precious paperwork time between patients to go down to Paul’s lab and ask for an update. Granted, this will look like doing good work for the emperor, if she is watching him, but he isn’t looking forward to trying to rebuild this connection. It would be better to just do it over comms, so he doesn’t have to look at Paul’s face.

Already annoyed, he is utterly thrown by the fact that the door to the lab is locked. He jabs the comm. “Commander Stamets, this is Culber. I’m here to speak with you about my patient’s fungal sample.”

“Stamets is in the middle of a delicate task,” an unfamiliar and terse feminine voice responds. “I’ll tell him you stopped by.”

He groans. “You can also let him know that I don’t want to have to come down here again to get an answer from him. Culber out.” He jabs the comm button again and stalks back down the hall. He hopes the emperor won’t start breathing down his neck. He doesn’t need that on top of the comments he’s likely to get from his CO.

At the end of alpha shift, Hugh’s lost patience entirely. He prescribes painkillers to a patient complaining of recurring foot pain, unable to keep a sneer off his lips. She is always here, never satisfied with his efforts, and he’s tired of it.

When the patient has left, and the beta shift doctor clocks in, he goes to wash his hands. The water is hot, there’s a new soap that smells of lemon, and the sink is clean for once. He inhales the lemon scent as he scrubs under his fingernails. He’s so relieved to be done for the day.

“Your boss told me I’d find you back here.”

Hugh whirls, flinging drops of water as he readies fists, and then sagging when he sees Paul. “Don’t sneak up on me,” Hugh growls, turning back to the sink. He catches sight of Paul’s eyebrows arching worriedly in the mirror.

“I thought I’d deliver those results you wanted in person. I’ve been occupied with trying to fix our damn mycelial reactor.”

“I’m surprised Pollard told you I was back here. This is a restricted area. She’s usually the one who’s a stickler for protocol.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Hugh curses to himself. Pollard may _actually_ be trying to set him up. “Go. I’ll meet you out in the waiting room in two minutes.”

Paul obediently departs without another word, and Hugh stares at his reflection in the mirror. The lines around his mouth have deepened in the past couple of years, and the youthful curve of his face is drooping away. He’s old. Too old for this shit.

He sighs, now rinsing his hands and drying them under the microdryer.

Pollard is pulling supplies down from the upper shelves in the hall as Hugh passes. He pauses, staring her down, making sure his CO sees the hardness in his eyes. _Don’t even try me_.

Paul stands in the waiting room, rubbing the fingers of his right hand nervously against each other as he clutches a small padd in his left hand. “Outside.” Hugh strides right past him, not waiting for Paul to follow.

In the hallway, Paul hands him the padd. “It’s nothing particularly unusual. Not fatal or even very harmful, short-term. I don’t know what kind of physiological effects it would have long-term in humans. A this study from 2221 shows that it did cause some strange readings in Andorians.”

“Good enough,” Hugh says. His patient is long since back at work, and as far as he knows, perfectly healthy, so the entire exchange seems perfunctory at best. As an afterthought, he adds, “I appreciate it.” Paul’s proximity is making him jumpy, memories of their tryst in the examination room reasserting themselves with alarming power. Hugh knows Georgiou will be looking for him to spend time with Paul, but the scientist has made his wish to keep Hugh at a distance more than clear. And yet… Paul hasn’t stalked off. In fact, he’s just standing there.

“Join me for dinner in the mess?” Hugh offers abruptly. “Tell me more about the research. Just dinner.”

Paul’s eyes widen, and then he nods slightly. “Of course,” he says, and for a moment his expression relaxes. Hugh remembers how Paul’s expression had shifted that way when Hugh had him backed up against the wall, a change so unbearably _hot_ that Hugh had dispensed entirely with his plans for a longer seduction. God, those lips…

Hugh coughs, mostly just to refocus himself. Paul’s made his wishes clear. Now this is all about keeping the emperor satisfied.

Hugh’s hands are raking through his hair, occasionally tugging with the perfect amount of firmness, and Paul is helpless against the periodic shouts of his lizard brain telling him _Not safe! Not safe! Not safe!_ , giving in to the body pressed up against his, the lips and tongue and teeth teasing his mouth. He’s breathless with desire.

“Stop playing games,” Paul says between kisses. “Just do it.”

Hugh pulls back and his face contorts, and then begins to melt away.

It’s the emperor.

“No!” he yells, shoving her back, but her gold robes leave sticky traces on his hands, and strings of gold goo extend between her and him.

And then that face melts away.

It’s Hugh again, angry.

“I told _you_ to stop playing games,” Hugh growls. “So what do you want?”

And Paul runs.

Paul bolts upright in bed, his t-shirt damp with sweat, his breathing ragged and noisy, his heart racing.

That dream was more than a little symbolic. He likes his dreams better when they don’t feature anyone from his life. Let alone the two people who are causing him the most stress.

At least Lorca seems to have disappeared for good, from his life and his nightmares.

He sits crosslegged in the bed and pulls off the t-shirt, letting the air cool his damp skin. He aches for that interrupted dream kiss with Hugh, a kiss he’d been longing to make all through dinner, but he’d kept his distance and departed hastily after the dinner.

Yet his stomach still roils with the thought of the emperor, and he still wants to run. He rotates his feet, stretches his arms, tries to think about his favorite mushrooms, but a few minutes pass and he’s still ready to flee. But there’s nowhere to go.

He reaches for his hypospray and presses it to his neck.

It’s empty.

“Fuck.” The frustrated word hangs in the silence.

He calls for the lights on dim, and rummages around in his nightstand, finally coming up with a backup hypo of dylamadon. Even at a low dose, this is a last-ditch sedative, because it will knock him entirely out. He sets the dose even lower and hopes he’ll be awake to show up in the lab at a respectable hour. He lies down, presses the hypo against his neck, and tosses it to the floor as he falls into empty, emotionless sleep.

The next thing Paul’s aware of, his brain is trying to swim towards a very distant surface. His senses are dull, noises are garbled as if passing through water. He’s short of breath.

He tries to speak, managing only a frustrated whine.

“Oh, you’re up,” an irritated voice says, and he tries to move to it, move through it. His eyelids are too heavy to lift but his arms seem to work, he tries to paddle toward the surface and hits something. Hands grab his wrists to still them. “Ow. Fuck. Stop it, you’re fine.”

“Mahaaa,” Paul says, grimacing immediately. He wrenches his hands away and rubs his eyes with fingers that feel fast asleep, and finally is able to crack his lids open as he draws a full, deep breath.

Hugh is frowning over him.

“Issyou,” Paul says, his lips curving mechanically, trying to form a smile.

“So I see you haven’t completely melted your brain with that cocktail of sedatives. Reckless idiot.”

Hugh disappears from view while Paul blinks a few times, trying to get his bearings. He’s not in his quarters. This bed feels like laying on concrete. Maybe the medbay? It’s unusually quiet.

Hugh reappears, pressing a hypo against him and then frowning over him some more. “Can you move your legs?”

With some effort, he lifts his feet off the bed, wiggles his toes, and bends his knees. The brain fog is starting to lift.

“Oh good, my scans were correct. You’re not paralyzed. Well done.” Hugh rolls his eyes.

“Hey!”

“I’m serious. Dylamadon with the other sedatives you were taking can damage your spinal cord. I thought you were a _scientist_.”

Paul shrugs, lacking a better response. He doesn’t remember taking anything in particular, but it sounds like something he would do. “Is it still early?” he manages to say.

“Yes, it’s early, early an entire day later. My colleagues were called in when your medical alert implant sounded an alarm. It’s 0230 the next day.”

He sighs. He still isn’t quite sure how he got that medical alert implant. It’s saved his life more than once, but it’s probably just another way for the emperor to control him.

He tries to tamp down the growing dread. Getting another day behind on his work for the emperor is not going to make his life any easier. But what really is the point of anything? He changes the subject. “You work night shift?”

Hugh looks away. “Not usually.” The edge of his expression seems pinched, strained.

“Can you knock me out for another few hours? At least until I can go try to smooth this over?”

“You’re unbelievable,” Hugh snaps with a quick glare in his direction, walking off.

Paul marshals all his coordination to push himself upright on the bed. The couple of other patients are sleeping, and no one else is present. Hugh must have walked into the back offices.

He gingerly rotates to sit on the side of the biobed, and hesitantly reaches his feet for the floor. His feet seem steady enough under him; he can support his own weight. And if he can walk, he can go back to work.

He’s through the medbay doors before he realizes he’s clothed only in a medbay gown and his sweatpants, completely unarmed and unprotected.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm such a jerk, I forgot to thank @pencilguin profusely for their beta reading of these first four chapters. Please check out their amazing writing.
> 
> Basically all the content tag warnings apply to this chapter.

If this were any other person, Hugh would have given up entirely already.

Instead, cursing his own hardheadedness as he does so, he replicates a snack, the macaroni and cheese he’s seen Paul order sometimes. He’s heading back toward the main room when he hears the soft chimes letting him know someone has left the medbay.

Unsurprisingly, Paul’s bed is empty.

He sighs, setting down the tray on a nearby cart as he rubs the bridge of his nose. “Computer - Patient Stamets, Paul has checked himself out. Note that this is AMA.”

_“Record updated.”_

Hugh needs to stay put and look after some other patients - he is the only person on duty right now. Otherwise he’s not sure what he’d do. “Culber to Stamets.”

No response.

Hugh’s shift lasts until 0800 and he doesn’t hear back from Paul. He hopes Paul is getting himself back on track, but he doubts it.

Paul’s medical records showed the man was never a good temperamental match for the military. He’s been hanging on by a thread for years. Occasional catastrophic illnesses, frequent psychiatric prescriptions, suspected abuse of sleep medications and sedatives, not to mention his own access to his lab of fungi, poisons, and who knows what else.

And the unknown origin of a few of the stronger illnesses, and unexplained injuries, suggests someone who has been targeted for elimination before, and somehow managed to survive.

Despite his ever-present caution, Hugh feels confident that this particular mess of a man has no interest in hurting him. He seems to view Hugh neutrally, given that he’s willing to spend time with Hugh even when they aren’t fucking.

But that makes it easier to do his own job, right? He swallows roughly, freshly nauseated by his own betrayal. Neither of them trust easily, and the way the emperor controls him makes it clear why that’s a valid concern.

Paul enters the emperor’s office tentatively. She usually doesn’t invite him here when she wants something personal from him, so that’s a relief, but no guarantee.

Wrapped in a thin gold robe, arms crossed, Emperor Georgiou stares out the window. “You were ill,” she says abruptly, eyes fixed on the stars. “You had a deadline.”

“Yes, Emperor,” he says, already hating himself. “I did.”

“Dr. Culber wrote that he recommended you stop drugging yourself to sleep every night. Now why would you do that?” She turns, dark brown eyes boring into his.

“Insomnia. I’ve had it for a long time,” Paul says, trying to keep his unease under wraps.

“Too bad.” She begins sauntering toward him, hips swaying in her usual power walk that promises he’s going to be in a lot of trouble. “And no excuse for disappointing me.”

“O- of c- course.”

“You should listen to your doctor. He’s highly qualified.” She grins as she stops directly in front of him. “And great fun in bed.”

He opens his mouth to ask what she means, then realizes: _she fucks him too._ As if he could possibly invite more drama into his life by getting involved in that triangle, when he isn’t even sure how he’s going to make himself get through the next 24 hours.

“I want that drive online, Mr. Stamets. And you are going to make it happen.” The sickly scrape of metal against metal, the emperor drawing her dagger and bringing it up to press its point under his chin. “With no further delay. Or I shall start exacting my price from you personally. Do I make myself clear?”

“Completely,” he says, fighting back the quaver in his voice.

“Good.” She withdraws the dagger. He flinches as the metal scrape sounds again, and she grimaces, her lip curling with disgust. He knows how his weakness repulses her. Not enough though. “Go.”

Hugh stops by Paul’s lab two nights after he ran away from the medbay. He plans to invite Paul out for a game of pool, maybe some sake from the rec center bar. He’s been restless lately, and Paul is… good for that. Seeing him will also satisfy the emperor’s needs.

The door to the lab is unlocked, and inside there’s just Paul at his desk and an assistant monitoring a small terrarium filled with a slimy red mold or fungus.

Seeing Hugh, Paul rapidly dismisses his assistant with a derisive wave. “Go home, you’ve done enough damage today.” She bows slightly and leaves. Paul taps a few more keys on his console and looks up at Hugh. “What do you want?”

“Wondering if you have plans for the evening. I was thinking of playing a game down at the rec center, and I don’t have a partner.”

Paul arches his right eyebrow, a mischievous smile beginning to form. “What makes you think I enjoy games?”

Hugh laughs. “Your entire life is a game, Paul.”

His mouth forms an astonished O, and then he laughs, the grin splitting his normally composed face incongruously. Hugh finds it kind of endearing. “Touche, doctor. Well, I could use a distraction this evening. I’ve been at this since 0600.”

“The emperor keeps you hard at work,” Hugh observes. “How is the drive coming?”

Paul’s expression sours, and his blue eyes go dark. “I wish she’d forget about me,” he almost growls. “I know she doesn’t care about anyone but herself.”

This seems to go much deeper than the average Terran’s dislike of their ruler. Hugh’s wondered why the emperor wants a spy against Paul when she already likely keeps a close eye on him through surveillance. He says tentatively, “I didn’t realize you knew her so well.”

He only sees the edge of Paul’s crumpling expression as he turns away, busying himself with a small trinket on his desk. “You should go,” he says bitterly.

“Why?”

“Leave me alone."

“No." Paul whirls, glaring daggers. "You’ve been hiding something from me for a long time and I want to know what.” Paul's head drops slightly, letting Hugh know he's found his mark. “Look. You’ve been distant since we slept together, and yet we’ve spent a lot of our off-duty time together over the past month. So you obviously don't dislike me. But you act like…” Hugh sighs. “You’re hiding things, but not the usual kinds of things.” He can only hope Paul hasn’t made any similar reads of his own behavior.

Paul grimaces. His cheeks are red, and there are tears held back in the corners of his eyes. “Your powers of deduction are really fucking obnoxious, doctor.”

“Honestly, you drop a lot of hints. So are you going to tell me what’s happening?”

“Not here. The night shift is coming soon. Come to my quarters.”

That’s a surprising move, and one with its own set of dangers, but like almost everything having to do with Paul, Hugh finds himself making decisions he otherwise wouldn’t. “All right.”

Hugh is faintly impressed by how much security Paul has on his quarters, for such a low-ranking officer. His door padd seems to have a DNA scanner in addition to a fingerprint scanner, and he cautions Hugh to wait outside while he disables some safeties. Hugh notices only when a faint buzz around the door frame ceases, and the doors slide open again. Paul motions him inside. Hugh feels for his dagger, and his backup weapons. He isn’t afraid of Paul, but he’s always worried.

When the doors shut, Hugh takes in the scene. Paul’s quarters are the usual one large room with bathroom to the left, but it’s much more minimalist than other quarters he’s been in. The usual red curtains over the windows are missing.

There is no couch, no coffee table, no armchair. A standard bed with 3 pillows scattered on it, dark blue covers in disarray, is pushed up against the wall to the right, with a bare nightstand. A work console is set up in front of one of the windows. A few uniform pieces are scattered on the floor near the bed. The lighting is somewhat brighter than Hugh is used to. He sees no art on the walls, no plants, no photos of family. No liquor cabinet, he notices with disappointment - he would really like a drink right now.

He’s used to the plainness of quarters onboard a ship, but this is eerie. “This is more sterile than my medbay.”

“Don’t psychoanalyze me.”

“I’m not.”

Paul resumes his nervous pacing, gesturing at the messy bed. “Feel free to sit. I can’t right now.”

Hugh straightens the duvet a bit before sitting on the corner of the bed, facing Paul as he walks back and forth in front of the windows. The stars streak by; they’re on their way to somewhere.

“What have you gotten yourself into?” Hugh asks.

“Well, I’ve harnessed the entire mycelial network to power this ship, and the drive is down, and I’m in serious trouble. So that’s what I’m doing.”

“That’s your duty. That’s not all that’s going on here.”

“Fuck off.” There’s no venom in the words.

Hugh rubs his eyes with the tips of his fingers. “I came here because you promised to talk to me.”

Paul sighs, turning toward the window and actually stopping his pacing for a moment. “The emperor has me in her service in more ways than one,” he says quietly. “I guess that makes both of us. But I’d rather not… do… that.”

Hugh blinks. _Shit._ He’s been found out. “How did you know?”

“She told me. Said you’re great in bed.” Though Paul’s facing away, he can hear the sour amusement in his voice, imagine the rueful smile on his lips.

Hugh replies honestly, “I don’t know where she got that from." _But Paul -_ oh, oh, no. He knows this happens, it happens all the time. But -

“Well, I assume it’s because you’re a good fu-” Paul responds automatically before he hears the full words, and then spins, eyes wide with rage. “So what the fuck did you think I meant?” Paul charges across the room, and Hugh stands to meet him just a few inches short of crashing into each other. “What kind of service _are_ you doing for her?” he demands.

Hugh’s heart clenches, taking in Paul’s rage and anguish. He relents, lowering his voice to a whisper, as if no one could really hear, if they really wanted to. He hopes Paul's security is really as good as he thinks it is. “She asked me to watch you. Make sure you weren’t betraying her.” He looks at his hands. “I promise. I haven’t fucked her. And I didn’t know about what you and her.”

Paul’s face goes through the full range of emotions: surprise, horror, anger, despair, before he turns back toward the window. “Oh,” he says finally, tucking his hands under his crossed arms.

“I didn’t have a choice not to spy on you,” Hugh says desperately. “I wouldn’t have agreed -” 

“I know.” Paul’s voice is small and brittle and fragile. “Do you think I _wanted_ her attention?”

Even though Hugh pressed Paul to open up, he also knows that if Paul had a better sense of emotional preservation, he never would have invited Hugh to his quarters. He never would have admitted that the emperor uses him, or that he didn't appreciate her attention. That’s treason. Literally anyone else would have turned him in.

“No. I – I got lucky. She did proposition me. I managed to get out of it. But Paul - you shouldn’t be telling me any of this.”

“You fucking asked,” Paul snaps. “You keep wanting me to open up. Now you got what you wanted. Why don’t you turn me in already?”

Hugh puts out a hand tentatively, letting it hover awkwardly over Paul’s unarmored shoulder for a moment, finally letting his fingers press against the black fabric. “I think you know why." He pauses, gathering his thoughts. "I can't stop thinking about you. And I don't want to hurt you.”

Paul tenses at Hugh’s touch, his shoulder rising up as if to protect his neck. But when he turns around, his gaze is fiery and intense, and he closes the distance between them, taking Hugh's face between his hands.

His lips are divine, and his kisses are open-mouthed and desperate. It's everything Hugh has been wanting for weeks - he can't get enough. He slides his hands around Paul's waist, relishing the feel of his body once again.

When Paul moves to take off Hugh’s breastplate, panting against Hugh’s lips as he fumbles for the clasps, it’s Hugh that finds himself momentarily helpless, his limbs weak, happy to give in to what Paul wants. “Why now?” he whispers.

All he can see is the twitch of Paul’s lips into a smile. “Now that I know you’re at least as compromised as me, there's no point in pretending any more."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No major content warnings in this chapter.

Something is tickling his ear… _a breath_.

Paul bolts to the left, scrambling out of bed on his hands and feet, a cold sweat immediately breaking out on his bare skin.

“Computer, lights!” As the lights come up, he’s casting about in a panic. Where is his dagger?

“What the fuck?”

Paul whirls.

Hugh - _fucking Hugh, the Hugh he fucked_ \- scowls as he pushes himself to a sitting position in Paul’s bed, putting his muscled arms and chest on full display.

“What -” Paul clamps his mouth shut before he can ask, _What are you still doing here?_ He finally sees the dagger on the floor. It must have fallen off his bedside table. He picks it up with clammy hands, places it back on the table, and sits back down heavily. “Fuck.”

“I should have gone home,” Hugh says, his voice tinged with concern but probably mostly just angry at being awoken at -

“Computer, time.”

“0314.”

Paul sighs. “Go home if you want to.” A pressure on the bed lifts as Hugh stands up.

All Paul’s panic about letting Hugh get too close is back, and so is the worry that the emperor is painting a giant target on his back. “Is your research on me done? I bet the emperor will feel you’ve gathered some useful intel,” Paul snaps.

Hugh admonishes him as he crouches to pick his discarded clothes off the floor, “Just - let me slip out the door and have one fucking good memory before everything goes to shit again. Don’t turn this into something about _her_.”

Paul grimaces, but as Hugh stands up from pulling his uniform legs on, he sees the anguish on Hugh’s face, the pained scowl and the tightness in the corners of his eyes.

“I needed this,” Hugh continues, and the raw need of that statement pierces right through Paul’s sarcastic defenses. He feels the same way. “I know you’re probably going to freak out and cut me off again, but before you do, consider that if she thinks I’m fucking you just to get you to spill secrets, I’ll be safer, and you probably will be too.”

Hugh’s right, unfortunately. This has to appear to be purely transactional. Emotions are suspect. “Okay,” he says at last.

Hugh straps his breastplate into place, adjusting his dagger on his belt, and regards Paul with an almost blank expression. “You’re the most annoying man I’ve ever met,” he says, a tiny smile creeping in on the last word.

“Likewise,” Paul retorts, as seriously as he can manage, feeling even more naked than he already is, compared with the power emanating from Hugh as he returns to the demeanor he shares with everyone else.

“Get some sleep,” Hugh says, crossing around the bed to sling an arm around Paul’s bare shoulders, an awkward sort of hug. “I’ll message you later. I think we need a more secure channel. Maybe you can work something out?” He steps back, drawing Paul’s gaze. Hugh narrows his eyes, all business now. “Oh, and by the way, this is your only warning, Paul Stamets. If you overdose again, I am locking out all your replicator privileges. Doctor’s orders.” Paul rolls his eyes and nods. Hugh nods back.

Hugh needs to mind his own business, Paul decides as he watches the doctor stride out of his quarters, hand on his dagger, alert for an ambush. Doesn’t he have enough to worry about?

It’s not until he’s back in bed, preparing to give himself another dose of sleeping meds, that he realizes he hasn’t taken anything yet tonight. He fell asleep next to Hugh. Without any drugs.

He’s both impressed and concerned that Hugh has that effect on him.

Over the next few days, Paul gets the drive back online, but not without a lot of yelling at the engineering crew, who are utterly incompetent. Straal would have put a few of them out an airlock by now. But that necessitates paperwork, and justification, and probably a meeting with the emperor, and he doesn’t have time for that, nor does he have the crew to substitute if he offs the engineering subordinates.

He’s been putting aside a lot of research in order to get the drive back up. As much as he likes fixing broken things, he’d really much rather be doing research. And this next project is going to be a big one.

The _Prototaxites stellaviatori_ he and Straal had collected for research long ago has been thriving in the bioproduction bay, much to Paul’s surprise. Given the reaction he’d had to tasting a tiny sample, which threw him to the ground with a vision of the network, he theorizes that taking a significantly larger amount could provide him a much larger vision of the system from which the _Charon_ draws all its power.

For whatever reason, though, the medical subjects on which he’d tested the samples had experienced zero effects. Nothing. He’d been more than prepared for people to die when subjected to high doses of _P. stellaviatori_ , but NOTHING. He has to know whether his vision of the mycelial network was real. But he’s had too much hanging over his head for a long time.

And now, with the drive functioning again at high efficiency, and the emperor focusing all her attention on rooting out subversives in the interrogation division and not on threatening him, Paul has breathing room for the first time in months. Who knows how long it will last, but he is going to seize every moment.

_019238448(hyper-encrypted): Are you free tonight? I have… ideas. *wink*_

_498754892(hyper-encrypted): Are you using our secure channel to_ proposition me _???_

_019238448(hyper-encrypted): Fine. I’ll send covering messages. She doesn’t need to know about the sex._

_498754892(hyper-encrypted): No, she doesn’t. Your place, 2200?_

_019238448(hyper-encrypted): Don’t work out too hard before._

He is also going to finally test mycelial communication. But first things first. Yes, spending time with Hugh is the most fun he has had in years. A tiny part of him still fears Hugh will rat him out to the emperor. That’s always a possibility. But he’ll run with this as far as it will go. Comparing his life before Hugh to his life now makes it painfully clear how miserable he’s been. And how worthless life will feel if he has to do without him.

God, Straal would have killed Paul himself if Paul had ever dared to voice sentiments like that. “The work is everything, Paul.” And maybe Paul would have agreed then. Straal had left Amelia behind without a second thought when she’d objected to him joining the empire.

Paul had had no one to leave behind.

Now, though…

The computer announces a call. Hugh sighs and steps into the hallway outside the patient room to receive the comm. “Culber here.”

The emperor’s crisp voice orders, “Dr. Culber, please come see me immediately. My office,” before cutting the line unceremoniously.

He ducks his head back in the room to tell his patient that the nurse will get her labs done and replicate pain meds. The patient is another interrogator working herself too hard, trying to impress the emperor and stay out of the way of the ongoing departmental purge.

Pollard approaches Hugh as he’s entering a few details into his padd. “A call from the emperor?” she asks, sliding up next to him to open one of the supply cupboards.

Hugh side-eyes her. He still can’t really tell what Pollard’s angle is. “Maybe she’s mad about my relapse percentages,” he says lightly, looking back down to his notes.

“She would come to me about that first.”

Hugh bites his lip as he forwards the notes to the nurse on duty. Pollard needs to leave him alone. He really doesn’t want to have to challenge her. “I suppose.”

“Watch yourself, anyway,” Pollard says evenly.

His head snaps up. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“She’s in a bad mood because of the purge in the interrogation division, that’s all. We’re booked up for weeks and the waitlist isn’t getting any shorter. Cover your ass, Culber. I need you _here_.” She pulls a canister of PT salve down and shuts the cupboard, catching Hugh’s eye as she does so. “Stay safe.” She strides from the corridor.

_Stay safe? Who says something like that?_

Hugh feels the heavy gaze of the guards pulling open the regal doors to the emperor’s office. He’s sure they recognize him now. Do they know why he’s here?

Emperor Georgiou is seated in her full regalia, hands folded, at her desk, windows facing out onto the stars behind her. Her desk is a solid piece of shiny black rock, laced with gold, as if filling in the cracks in the rock, although it’s polished and lacquered smooth. There’s no sign of any console or padd in the room. The office is clearly just for show – or intimidation.

“Doctor Culber,” she says after he finishes his bow, raising one incredulous eyebrow. “You have not reported to me in several days. What is the status of your task?”

“I have been spending more time with Mr. Stamets as you requested,” he says. “He hasn’t given any indication that he is anything but loyal to you.”

“I see. Is he working diligently?”

Hugh has to fight to suppress laughter. “As always.”

“Is he working to complete _my_ orders? Or does he… fritter away his time on other tasks?”

Why is the emperor asking him this? Surely she has ways to monitor Paul’s work. Doesn’t she? Perhaps Paul’s security measures are able to keep her at bay. In any case, Hugh doesn’t have any reason to believe Paul isn’t doing whatever she wants, as much as he hates her.

“He seems focused on following your orders,” he says, glad to be able to be truthful.

Georgiou nods once, her eyes fixed on Hugh’s. “And is he developing a loyalty to you as well?”

The question takes Hugh aback, and his mouth falls slightly open. Of course, Georgiou will know that his reaction means there’s an element of truth to her supposition. But this question of competing loyalties… it’s tricky.

“We have been developing a stronger bond. But I have no doubt about his loyalty to the empire and to you,” Hugh answers carefully.

“If you have reason to believe he would follow you more than me, you come to me immediately.”

He bows slightly. “Of course.”

She leans forward, hands folded, and says in an even, quiet voice, “Do not permit me to be challenged.”

“Never, Emperor,” he responds immediately, as drilled, and although he feels a twinge of dishonesty, he dreads to think what would happen if he really, genuinely, crossed her.

Paul pulls out his last canister of _Prototaxites stellaviatori_. He’s kept this hidden away for years, since Straal died. At the time, he was worried about the blowback, someone destroying his work in a fit of pique.

He still vividly remembers the jolt of spearmint flavor, the flash of light, the _floating_. Straal kneeling over him in the bioproduction bay, growling, “Wake the fuck up, Stamets!”

What if he can feel that again?

Trying to access the network is very much outside what the emperor wants from him right now, which is optimizing the mycelial reactor. Isn’t it good enough that it powers nearly the whole ship with no need to use the warp drive? Isn’t it good enough that there’s no evidence the rebels know how to detect the reactor’s signature?

_She’ll never be satisfied._

Paul carries the canister down to the lab next to the reactor room, the glow of the enormous orb of power filling the entire viewscreen and, with the brightness filters fully engaged, filling the room with a soft reddish yellow glow.

He sits in his desk chair, admiring the contrast of the blue stellaviatori against the reactor room. He can’t wait to experience the network again, the lightness, the power.

And now he’ll have someone to share the experience with. Hugh sometimes has lasted as long as fifteen minutes of Paul’s excited ramblings about his work before asking to change the subject already. It’s the most patience anyone has shown him in a long time.

Slowly, he pulls off the top cap, and then unscrews the atmospheric seal. The soft hiss and click heightens his anticipation. He sets the cap and seal aside and reaches into the glowing blue cylinder, delicately grabbing one of the mushrooms and twisting as he pulls to break off a 3-cm piece.

The glow on the mushroom begins to fade as he brings it up to eye level, examining it, squeezing it slightly to feel the pushback against his fingers.

He brings it to his mouth, and pauses before tasting it. No, he needs to eat the whole thing or he could pass out before he gets the full dose.

Paul throws it in his mouth, and chews. The spearmint flavor, stronger now, the chewiness of the flesh, it all feels right… A flash of bright light obscures his vision, his muscles contract all at the same time, and then -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus ends the first half of the story. I hope to start posting the second half in a month or so, once I've edited enough of the second half, which is still in progress. Who can guess what will happen even tomorrow though? Coronavirus makes this a tough time. Stay safe y'all. Hugh and Paul sure are trying to.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I return with the first chapter of Part 2. Thank you to @pencilguin for the beta reading again!
> 
> Only content warning this chapter is going in a little more detail on the "logic" of the canon-typical speciesism of the Terran Empire.

Hugh chews another forkful of salmon almost aggressively, fighting back the urge to look up every time the mess hall door hisses open. Paul hasn’t answered his messages this morning. Hugh is hoping that he’ll simply show up across the table.

Instead, Pollard’s voice sounds from over his shoulder. “Haven’t seen your  _ friend _ Deshaun around in a while,” she says, rounding the table to sit across from him. “And now I know why.”

“He’s not my friend,” Hugh says automatically. He bites his lip before he gives away more than he wants.

She raises her eyebrows at him, regarding him levelly as she bites into her sandwich, chewing slowly and then swallowing. “He’s been in an agonizer for three days.”

“Am I supposed to care?” Hugh says, too loudly, too defensively. Even after everything in the past few weeks, he can’t deny that he and Deshaun had some good times together. But if he got himself into trouble with the emperor, it’s just as well Hugh’s been avoiding him. He doesn’t need any more reasons for the emperor to pay attention to him.

“Huh,” Pollard remarks. “If you say so.”

Hugh groans. “You seem to be taking a lot of interest in my personal life lately,  _ Doctor _ .” They’ve been working together for more than a year, and she’s always been fine to work with, but distant. But Hugh has been on edge around her ever since she let Paul into the back room. 

“I’ve been noticing you’re different from the other doctors. I like it.” 

His hand clenches a bit on the fork. Something is definitely off.

“How, exactly, am I different?” he asks nonchalantly, setting down his fork gently and giving her his full, wary attention.

“You seem to take your work seriously. Sometimes I even think you care for your patients.”

“I do whatever the empire requires of me. That means making sure our people are well.”

“A solid answer.” She leans in across the table, almost whispering, “If a bit rote.”

Hugh’s heart pounds almost audibly in his chest. Pollard’s agenda seems more than a little potentially subversive.

She continues softly, “I know you care about more than duty. I don’t think you would still be working here if you didn’t think you were doing something meaningful.” Her eyes trail over his breastplate. “Unless something else is keeping you from leaving.”

“I’m loyal to the empire and loyal to the emperor, and I’ll do whatever she asks of me,” Hugh says, slightly louder.

“As am I, doctor. I admire your commitment.” She takes up her sandwich again. After another bite, and extended chewing which does nothing to slow Hugh’s racing heart, she says, “We have a heart surgery this afternoon for Lieutenant Crow. My second has gotten caught up in some unfortunate business and is no longer available. Can I count on you?”

“Of course.”

They’d gotten the call not long after scrubbing out of Lieutenant Crow’s surgery, when Hugh had been ready to go home for the day. Medical emergency in the mycology labs.

He’d volunteered, trying not to seem too eager or too affected, and Pollard, again playing a mystifying level of favoritism, had chosen him to accompany her.

His heart rate rose alarmingly as the doors hissed open in front of them. They rounded the corner and there he was. “Dammit.” Hugh can only whisper under his breath, not with other medical personnel around.

Paul lies in uniform on a biobed in the corner of his lab. He’s more tightly composed than he’s ever looked when asleep with Hugh, on his back, eyes closed, hands at his sides, obviously a placement by whoever got to him first. Nurse Reyes turns from checking Paul’s vitals as they approach and grins eagerly.

“You need to see his eyes,” she murmurs. “It’s the most unnerving thing.”

Hugh leans over Paul, gently pulling his eyelid apart and dispassionately gazing into the glazed whiteness covering his beautiful blue eyes.

“Very strange,” he says carefully, letting his hands fall away. He swallows around the lump that’s formed in his throat and tries to speak calmly. “Why has he been brought here and not to sickbay? Are we to treat him here?”

“I’ve just received orders from the emperor,” Pollard says dryly from behind him. “We’ve been ordered to monitor him only, provide no treatment.”

“But why?” The impertinent question leaps from his mouth.

Reyes narrows her eyes at him. “What does it matter?” she says accusingly.

Pollard snaps, “Reyes, I need you to complete an incident report on the emergency call now, not get into pissing matches about orders with your superiors.” Reyes flinches. “I see you understand. Dismissed.”

The doors of the lab hiss shut behind Reyes, as Hugh fights to keep his eyes on Pollard.

“I know he’s important to you,” Pollard says, moving to stand on his right, and Hugh’s eyes drop to Paul’s still form.

“I’d really like to know how you know so much about me, Dr. Pollard.” How can Paul look so  _ peaceful _ like this?

“It’s Tracy, please.”

“Are you spying on me for the emperor,  _ Tracy _ ?”

She cocks her head at him, almost grinning. “I think I’d be a bit too obvious if that was my role, don’t you?”

He sighs. “Please just… get to the point or do whatever it is you’re after. I’m tired.” He wants to trace Paul’s hand from index finger to wrist, to take his hand and never let go, to fucking punch him in the face because  _ why _ put his life at risk for his  _ research _ ? Hugh settles for clenching his fist, shifting on his feet nervously, wondering if he should reach for his knife.

Pollard goes on as if she didn’t hear him. “I don’t know why the emperor won’t let us treat him. Certainly, you and Mr. Stamets are of particular interest to her. But whatever her plans are for you, they don’t end with your promotions.”

“Yeah.” The thought has been circling around the edges of his consciousness for some time: there isn’t going to be a way out of this where he survives.

Pollard runs a tricorder over Paul. “The white matter activity in his brain is increasing sharply. We have no way to know how to begin to treat this yet.” She looks up at Hugh. “But I think you and I share a common cause. We need to work together.”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” Hugh says tightly, his hands beginning to shake, torn between listening and storming out. Leaving the room means leaving Paul.

Pollard pulls out another tricorder and shows it to him. “Auditory privacy measures engaged,” the screen assures him. Hugh grabs it roughly from her hand and taps a few words, checking that at least the interface isn’t inconsistent.

But they both must know they’re temporary. Only Paul can activate the privacy features in this lab. Tracy is remarkably non-confrontational for someone who means him harm; perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to find out what her real story is. After a moment he hands the tricorder back. “We can speak more after the patient is stabilized.”

He turns their conversation over and over in his head the next few days, half-conscious, monitoring Paul’s vitals from his padd and spending hours by Paul’s bed after work. The hours by Paul’s bed are when he’s trying to engage in surreptitious research on his condition, discovering so little is known and there’s so little he can do. The emperor’s prohibition against treatment has turned out to be nearly pointless.

When he does go home, it takes a monumental effort to get to sleep, trying to ignore how his swigs of liquor mirror Paul’s use of sedatives, trying to drown out the futility of all these hours of work. But Tracy’s words still linger.

_ Do you ever think, there has to be more to life than the empire? _

_ Do you ever wonder if the best humanity can aspire to is ruling over other people? _

Hugh had grimaced at this, an idea of where she was going beginning to form.

_ I know you refused to kill the Bolian in interrogation training _ , Tracy had said simply.  _ I know you went into medicine instead. What does that mean? _

“They’re inferior, savage,” Hugh had nearly spat at Tracy, bile rising in his throat. “But we would have been more effective without killing him. Why are you asking me this?” The greatest weakness of his young career was rarely thrown back in his face anymore. In fact, it seemed to have fallen off some of his personnel files. All the better. But Tracy must have had access to his full record.

_ There are people within the empire, humans, who are thinking differently about what our highest and best purpose is. We think we should let other species live their lives as they see fit. We think we are causing more harm than good. We think that humans should be freer too. _

It wasn’t the first time Hugh had encountered such sentiments. Even his parents had occasionally uttered similar thoughts, couched in careful language, that the Terran Empire spent too much time conquering and enslaving other species and not enough time taking care of humanity. What had the Vulcans or Klingons really ever done to them?

Those thoughts alone were treasonous, and Hugh had pretended he didn’t hear them, but he remembered them. Turned them over in his mind from time to time. He’d never been on the frontlines where prisoners of war were needed for interrogation, so he’d never treated someone of another species. The Bolian had been the only one he’d even gotten close to.

But this was on another level entirely.

_ Andorians, Bolians, Vulcans, Klingons, Kelpiens, they’re all sentient species and they deserve their own culture and lives. Even setting aside the question of human superiority, why would our superiority mean that we need to control others? They haven’t hurt us. _

“Yes, they have!” Hugh had said, listing off half a dozen massacres before cutting himself off in anger. “The Battle at the Binary Stars? Are you fucking kidding me? The Klingons killed thousands of us. They deserved every single -”

_ But who aggressed against them originally? Did we goad them? Did we kill a bunch of them first? Who’s to say they were not reacting to us? We cut off their supply lines. We spread propaganda about their culture. It’s not all true, the stories we have about the Klingons. _

Hugh had tried to end the discussion there. It was too much, he told Tracy. He needed time to think.

_ You’re no fool, Hugh Culber. I know you’re better than this. _ She’d waved her hand dismissively at the grand imperial architecture of his quarters.  _ We need people who know how to care. Are you going to let humanity rot from the inside any longer? _ She’d stared at him stonily until he told her to leave.

Standing over Paul’s bed, still unable to take Paul’s hand for fear of the consequences, he finds himself caring more than he has in a long time. About justice. About actually being able to live a life that didn’t involve walling off his heart entirely.

He doesn’t think Tracy is right. But he doesn’t think she’s entirely wrong either. She’s sure something better is possible.

But where does that leave him?

“Culber to Pollard.”

“Go ahead, doctor.”

He steadies his voice, staring down at Paul’s milky open eyes, his mouth moving in nonsensical whispers. “I’d like to meet to further discuss improving my surgical technique. Perhaps you could give me a few pointers?”

Paul was sure that time was passing, but he could never remember for long. The only thing he holds onto is the knowledge that he must find a way out.

At some point he met Hugh, another Hugh. He remembers that this strange copy had flung himself into Paul’s arms, crying with relief, and he’d scowled, pushing the manifestation away.

“Pull it together,” he’d snapped, deeply uncomfortable with the sobs. “Why are you here? We need to find a way out.”

“What’s wrong with you?” this other Hugh had snapped back, between his tears. “Why are you acting this way?”

Eventually they’d determined that they weren’t who they’d believed they were. The combined disgust and despair on that Hugh’s face cut him so deep, Paul probably had said something even more dismissive to get him to go away. And this imposter Hugh had retreated into the yeel forest.

Exploring the rest of the network makes up for this troubling experience. The sheer power around him, the endless plane of  _ Prototaxites stellaviatori _ . The physical manifestation of twenty years of labor. This world is around him,  _ for him _ .

Occasionally, he finds himself looking at what seems to be another version of himself, in a medbay, in a lab. This other him has a connection to the network as well, but one that allows him to exist outside of it. How did he manage this?

And then… the corruption had set in. The network had manifested a copy of his lab, somehow, he hasn’t questioned it, where he’s been able to determine that the darkness settling into his skin is the death of the network itself.

And then all of a sudden, the other him is  _ here _ . It’s odd to see himself walking and talking. Is this how he appears to others? He’s starting to see why people seem to be annoyed by him. But this Paul Stamets is alternately fascinated and distracted, he can’t get him to focus on what’s important. And he’s awfully nosy about the corruption of the network. Paul just needs them to get  _ out _ of here so maybe he can do something about it.

“Hugh?” the other Paul says, and suddenly Paul realizes – the Hugh he’s met could be his counterpart’s partner. Is it possible they were drawn together in another universe too?

The other Paul rushes off before he can stop him. It’s hard not to sympathize because Paul knows he’d run after his own Hugh, but hasn’t Paul just explained how the network was dying and they needed to figure out a way out of here?

And when Paul finally tracks them down, they won’t open the door. He yells at them. He hopes this Hugh understands the stakes. This world that has shifted under his feet for weeks suddenly lurches to the side, and goes dark.

“It worked!” Paul breathes, bolting upright. For some reason, he’s still in his lab. He’s not in sickbay, not hooked up to machines, and entirely unattended. He’s on a biobed, the firm cushion refreshingly  _ real _ under his hand. It is certainly strange that he’s not monitored, but…

He brings his hands up to rub his eyes, trying to reassure himself he’s still here. His face is freshly shaven. Then maybe not much time has passed. Maybe they only managed to bring him to the bed, and he seemed stable, so they left him.

He remembers speaking to that other Hugh. The one who doesn’t understand surviving by the skin of your teeth, the one who would never take a life, the one who prizes honesty and integrity above all else.

But the only thing he wants now is to see his Hugh. To sit in his quarters with Hugh and eat dinner, maybe watch one of those excruciating holo-shows Hugh enjoys, maybe let Hugh throw him down on the bed again and just let go…

He hurries for the door, checking at the door console that his safeties have been disabled. Just before he leaves, he asks, “Computer, stardate?”

“The stardate is 3938.6.”

_ Shit. _ It’s been two weeks already? Then why the hell is he alone in his own lab?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my awesome beta reader, @pencilguin!
> 
> I suspect chapters are gonna be coming pretty slow, what with all the MU-level nonsense happening in the US these days. Again, it's mostly editing - the story is all written. But my brain is mush.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and for all the comments I haven't responded to (see again: brain mush). I read and appreciate each one. <3

An alarm screen comes up on Hugh’s padd, just outside his range of vision, and he glances over. “Patient awake. Vital signs normal.”

And a moment later, “Doors opened.”

_ Shit _ . Hugh’s with Ensign Tavish, about to deal with her horrendously ingrown toenail, for some reason a task that requires a trained medical doctor. Shouldn’t they have Kelpien servants handling this menial task?

_ But Paul is awake _ .

He closes his eyes briefly, gathering his strength. He’s been preparing for this moment for two weeks now. In a sense, he’s been preparing for what he’s about to do for the past ten years.

Hugh refocuses, holding Tavish’s foot still as he cuts the toenail away and then runs the rapid regenerator over the toebed. The seconds drag.

The whole delay was maybe five minutes. He gives cursory care instructions to Ensign Tavish, barely even looking her in the eye before rushing out of the room.

“Computer, locate Paul Stamets,” he orders once he’s safely in the deserted scrub room.

“Paul Stamets’ location cannot be determined.”

How did he already forget that the emperor had ordered Paul’s location obscured “for ship security”? The fact that she hadn’t ordered the lab sealed from his own ability to exit was an… interesting oversight.

Hugh passes Tracy in the main sickbay, muttering, “He’s awake,” to her as he passes.

She says, “Go.”

He checks the lab first. The lights are dimmed to their normal vacancy levels when he enters, slowly rising to full brightness. The biobed in the corner is empty, casting an oddly foreboding shadow on the wall without Paul there.

Hugh makes his way via an agonizingly long turbolift ride to Paul’s quarters. He taps the door comm. “It’s me.”

No answer.

There really isn’t anywhere else he’d expect Paul to be after waking up from a two-week-long coma. He would know something was off, waking up in his own lab alone after all that time. He probably wouldn’t be hungry, God knows Hugh couldn’t get him to eat regularly unless he was there with him, and he was receiving nutrient IVs twice a day, so…

Heaving a sigh, Hugh has to acknowledge Paul will make himself visible in his own time.

It’s almost end of shift anyway, so he taps a quick message to Tracy and heads for his quarters. He’ll lift weights and pace his room until Paul shows up.

But when the lights come up in his quarters, there’s Paul, lurching to his feet excitedly from his seat on the end of Hugh’s bed, wearing his uniform. “Fuck,” Hugh hisses, hand loosening over the hilt of his dagger the second he positively identifies Paul. “I didn’t know you could hack doorcodes.”

Paul frowns. “I’m happy to see you too,” he retorts, obviously wounded by Hugh’s lack of enthusiasm.

Under any other circumstances, Hugh would be pleased to see Paul up and about. He would pull him into his arms ( _ for fuck’s sake, he didn’t even go back to his quarters and grab his armor _ ) and let him know, without having to say anything, how much he’s been missed. But there’s too much at stake now. “Paul, we don’t have a lot of time. I don’t know how much you know already.”

Paul’s eyebrows arch, and Hugh’s anger and determination melt a little at the familiar expression. “What do you mean?” Paul asks.

Hugh raises a finger to his lips.

Paul glances above Hugh’s door, shakes his head, and looks back at Hugh. “Don’t worry. I already redid your security settings. Quite a while ago, actually. I also brought my backup vocal scrambler.”

“But not your armor?” Paul glances down at himself, surprised, and then shrugs sheepishly. “You’re impossible.” Hugh can’t help a laugh from escaping. “I appreciate it. I’m not used to this level of secrecy.”

“I envy you.”

The wistful tone in Paul’s voice is hard to ignore, but Hugh pushes on past it. There really is no time to waste. “There may be a challenge to the emperor’s power underway. Lorca is back.”

“ _ Gabriel  _ Lorca?” Paul exclaims.

Paul is almost curling into himself as Hugh nods and says, “The same.” Paul takes a step back. “Reports are that he’s in an agonizer right now. Since you seem to be worried.”

“Of course I’m worried!” Paul exclaims bitterly. “I sold out Lorca to the emperor. He wants my head on a platter.”

This is a piece of information Hugh had not heard. But it’s only a complication to the main problem at the moment for Paul. “I don’t have any better news about Georgiou.”

“What do you mean?”

Hugh sighs. “She ordered the medical staff not to work to wake you up. Said you had betrayed her. And that we were to study you. But not… interfere. She thought it would be fitting.”

“Oh.”

Hugh closes his eyes, measuring his words. “Your lab assistants were killed or reassigned.” There’s only a flicker of rage on Paul’s face, followed by a distressing blankness. “And your engineering underlings haven’t been maintaining the reactor up to standards. Some of them were eliminated. That didn’t help with the maintenance schedule.”

Paul sits back down on the edge of Hugh’s bed, staring at a spot on the floor a meter in front of him.

His silence quickly becomes unnerving. This is a lot to take in, but Hugh has to up the stakes even more now. “I… need you to know something else.”

Paul sighs.

“I want to leave the empire.”

“Don’t we all.” Paul snorts.

“I’m working on a plan.” Hugh swallows back a sudden lump in his throat. Why the sudden emotion? “I… want you to leave too.” He takes a deep breath. “I want you to leave with me.”

Paul’s sudden, bitter laughter shatters the moment. “There’s no leaving, Hugh, you know that.”

He kneels in front of Paul, takes his hands between his own. “Paul. What good is staying here, now? What exactly do you gain? The emperor has given up on you. The fact that you’re awake is a liability to your  _ life _ .”

“I lose everything I worked for if I go.”

“Your research is worth nothing if you can’t use it, anyway.”

Paul wrenches his hands from Hugh’s grasp and gestures wildly. “What the hell would you know about that? Hugh, I was living  _ inside the mycelial network  _ for the past two weeks. If I leave my research here, if I leave my mushrooms here, I can never go back. I can never experience that again.” A sob tears from his throat. “That plane of existence is real. And you know what else I found out? If I let the drive keep operating… it will kill the network. It could destroy the universe. I have to stop that from happening. But I can’t… I can’t…”

“Paul.” Hugh keeps his voice very soft, very gentle. He realizes it’s the same tone his parents used to comfort him with when he was little.

“Did you hear what I said, Hugh?” Paul snaps, his voice quivering. “The mycelial network is  _ dying _ . Because of something  _ I did.  _ The most beautiful place I’ve ever seen, and I was  _ killing it. _ If the drive is online, I’m still destroying it. I am destroying  _ all of us _ . Leaving is easy for you. But now I have to consider Lorca  _ and  _ Georgiou  _ and  _ the drive,  _ and  _ contemplate your suicidal plan to try to leave.”

Hugh squeezes Paul’s hands, and tries to collect his thoughts. “What if you can disable the drive and then we leave? What if we can take some of your work with us?”

“I’m listening.”

“Oh, I don’t have a plan for that yet. I’m just telling you, maybe there’s still a way to do it all. Please don’t give up. I haven’t even told you about Tracy.”

“Who the hell is Tracy?”

Hugh smiles wryly. “We still have a lot to talk about.”

After a long conversation, they’d fallen into bed, and then to sleep. But Paul wakes just a few hours later, reluctantly tearing himself from Hugh’s warm, solid arms. 

He needs to go to the lab, take stock of what’s there, and pack up what he needs. At any other time, he would have rejected Hugh’s utterly asinine plan out of hand, but after experiencing the network and returning to a reality where the source of all of his protection (and his problems) has turned against him, well… even Paul Stamets  _ sometimes _ knows when to quit.

Now that he’s decided, a part of him wishes he had taken this plunge a long time ago.

The first task will be downloading his data. He heads back to his quarters to get his armor and assess the state of his private backup padds. The most recent data, from his coma and from the week before that, hasn’t been updated. So he’ll need that. In addition, he needs to take current skin, blood, hair, and saliva samples to compare to his pre-coma baseline. There isn’t time to run a full analysis, so he’ll take all the samples with him. Plus his treasured  _ P. Stellaviatori  _ canister, assuming it wasn’t destroyed after his experiment -

“ _ Shit _ ,” he hisses, taking in the potential reality of that statement. It might take him a lifetime to find another.

Suddenly even more terrified, he throws padds, his only civilian clothes, and his hypospray into a small suitcase, which he secretes behind a panel in the wall underneath the window. He tucks a blank padd into his belt and surveys the room again.

Maybe for the first time, he sees this room the way Hugh seemed to. Blank.

The past ten years, he’s been trying to keep himself blank. Someone who doesn’t feel is someone who can’t be hurt, who maybe won’t be noticed at all.

It hasn’t worked.

Paralyzing fear fights with anticipation, and finally anticipation wins out. He’s going to be free, or he’s going to die. Either way, he observes dryly as he strides out of his quarters for the second to last time, he  _ will _ be free of the empire.

This feeling lasts upward of thirty minutes, until Lorca’s hand closes around his throat.

Lorca had demanded Paul show him the bioweapon.

Killing is a messy business, and not one Paul normally likes to involve himself too heavily in. But those soldiers are loyal to Georgiou, and he’s not, he will never be, no matter how he obeyed her. He was just trying to stay alive.

So when he presses the button to unleash the gas on her soldiers, he tells himself that this is another extension of his impending freedom. Treason to Georgiou is treason to going back. He’ll live, or he’ll die, but he’ll never let her control him ever again.

A couple hours later, Hugh messages him.

_ 498754892(hyper-encrypted): I have hundreds of sick and dying in my medbay. There’s a mutiny on the ship. Are you okay? (0927) _

_ 019238448(hyper-encrypted): I used my bioweapon. (0931) _

_ 498754892(hyper-encrypted): What the fuck? This is YOUR work? (0956) _

_ 019238448(hyper-encrypted): Lorca found me. I didn’t have a choice. (0958) _

_ 498754892(hyper-encrypted): I thought we were getting out of here. Can I trust you? (0959) _

_ 498754892(hyper-encrypted): Tell me I can trust you. (1005) _

_ 498754892(hyper-encrypted): paul, please (1009) _

Paul can’t respond. Now he’s following Lorca through the ship, ready to do whatever he needs. If he tries to walk away, he’s dead. If he deviates one iota from what Lorca demands, Landry will shoot him. It’s crystal clear she wants nothing more.

He never stops looking for a way out, though.

In one sense he’s lucky, because Lorca knows Paul has a lot of security measures and decides the coup will operate out of his lab. That means that while Lorca talks to his trusted people, Paul can go to his desk and pretend to be waiting solicitously while he makes his own preparations.

It takes a long time for all his research data to transfer to the padd, but it’s honestly surprising that Georgiou hadn’t had power cut to the lab yet. A fortunate oversight. When the screen flashes to let him know the transfer is complete, he lets out an unintentionally loud sigh of relief.

“I know this is not the most exciting time but try to hold in your boredom. Smart people are talking,” Landry snaps from across the room. He looks up to find her sneering at him, leveling her phaser.

He swallows, eyes darting among Lorca and Landry and the end of her phaser.

Lorca doesn’t even look at him. “Focus up, Ellen, we don’t have time for this.” She rolls her eyes and holsters her phaser again.

He still doesn’t have a plan for shutting down the drive. From here, he can only do so much. He’d need to go to engineering to do anything very destructive.

There’s so many dead.

“It was Paul,” Hugh whispers to Tracy as they pass each other between beds.

She raises her eyebrows. “Didn’t think he had it in him.”

“That’s not the point,” Hugh hisses, before moving to the next bed.

How many people is he treating who are truly loyal to the emperor? How many would have joined the resistance if given the chance?

_ Aren’t we all collaborators? Does it really matter? _

When he considers some of the things he’s done, just to stay alive, he discovers he’s no better than Paul. No, he didn’t develop a bioweapon, but in his younger years, if he’d been offered the resources to do his own work, how far would he have gotten?

And how many beings of other species have been killed because someone he brought back to health masterminded their destruction? 

The biobed display over the next patient shows significant improvement. He turns off the ventilation mask and throws it into the medical waste bin, resetting the air circulation inside the forcefield and administering a hypospray, all while considering: H _ ow soon can I leave? _

_ And will Paul really be able to come with me? _ Paul knows nothing if not how to survive. But as one shift runs over, spilling into the next, and he’s still trying to save lives, Hugh wonders if Paul’s minute-by-minute survival strategies will mean he digs them both in too deep to actually leave.

“Go home, Hugh.”

He looks up from the sink. Tracy’s stern look, with a touch of parental exasperation, is hard to ignore. She shakes her head. “You’ve been standing there for at least two minutes. I know what exhaustion looks like. You’re no good to me tired.”

He wants to tell her that he’s going to leave. But the concept seems too fragile to speak out loud, even though Tracy is the one who planted this idea in him in the first place, who told him about one way he could defect, using a bank of escape pods she’s been reprogramming over the last two years.

“No,” he says, starting to wash the medical gel, blood, and whatever else off his hands. “I just need a few minutes.”

“Doctor Culber, you are dismissed. Do you understand me?” Tracy barks, no doubt for the benefit of the room. “I won’t have you endangering our patients. Now go.”

With no idea how much of this is performance and how much is genuine admonishment, Hugh adopts a stony expression, nods curtly. Once he’s dried his hands in the speed dryer he swiftly exits the medbay, pulling out his padd to message Paul.

_ 498754892(hyper-encrypted): I’m off duty. (1232) _

The minutes drag by as Hugh heads back to his quarters, takes a shower, changes into civvies. When he looks again:

_ 019238448(hyper-encrypted): I wish I could be there now. (1246) _

_ 019238448(hyper-encrypted): I love you. (1247) _

Hugh rereads the unfamiliar words, unsure what to make of them. They’ve never spoken of love. Who does? Dependence, desire, desperation, despondency – those are the emotions that drive the connections between people.

Paul of all people, who doesn’t seem to have a romantic side at all, who lives for his science, who’s given up on people... 

But he never gave up on Hugh.

Hugh can’t give up on him either.

_ 498754892(hyper-encrypted): Tell me where you are. I’m not leaving you alone right now. (1249) _

_ 019238448(hyper-encrypted): Are you out of your mind? You can’t come here. (1249) _

_ 498754892(hyper-encrypted): What if I defect? (1249) _

_ 019238448(hyper-encrypted): Hugh, NO. (1250) _

_ 019238448(hyper-encrypted): I need you to get my things out of my quarters. I doubt I’m going to be able to go back there. I’ll send you the credentials you need. Find a way for us to get off the ship. You can’t do that while doing whatever Lorca wants. Let me handle this side of things. (1253) _

Hugh rereads that message so many times, picturing Paul typing frantically and covertly, into his padd, trying to stay alive, and he finds that he hasn’t been this afraid in a long time.

_ 498754892(hyper-encrypted): Fine. (1256) _

_ 498754892(hyper-encrypted): I love you too. (1256) _

_ 498754892(hyper-encrypted): Please be safe. (1257) _


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for blood and violence.

When Hugh rounds the last corner to Paul’s quarters, he immediately realizes how much he is out of practice when it comes to subterfuge. He had not accounted for the possibility of members of the emperor’s guard standing at Paul’s door.

He ducks back around the corner, flattening himself against the wall, and waits.

Ten seconds pass slowly, his raspy breaths seeming to echo in the corridor, his heart beating loudly in his ears.

By some complete miracle, they haven’t noticed him.

_ Now what? _

He could easily be under surveillance. Standing here for long will be suspicious, if he’s managed to avoid drawing attention to himself already.

Fortunately, he does have a plausible, and real story to tell them. But can he pull off this deception? A lump forms in his throat. He may not be able to get out of this without violence.

He plasters a hesitant smile on his face and hurries around the corner.

“Hi,” he says to the guards as he strides up. “I’m Lieutenant Commander Hugh Culber - Paul Stamets’ doctor. I suspect he has some contraband in his quarters that may be… useful to the Empire.”

The guards look at each other, and back at him. “Yeah, right,” says the one with the reddish beard and mustache, rolling his eyes.

“Look, he gave me the credentials to get into his quarters. You don’t have to wait for him to come back, we can get in there right now.” Seeing their hesitation, he adds with what he hopes is an adequately malicious smile, “I’m sure the emperor would be glad to hear that you impeded the investigation. Let me give her a call.” He lifts his padd into view, showing with a few taps that he has the ability to contact the emperor directly.

The two men look at each other warily. “We’re coming in there with you,” the guard on the right says finally, thin dark eyebrows set against olive skin, brown eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“All right, fine,” he says brusquely, a sentiment he doesn’t feel. This was a mistake, he can already feel it.

He uses the credentials on his padd to open the door, typing as fast as he can to try to obscure the data from the guards. It’s probably not a big concern, the code is 40 characters and seemingly random. So much so that he has to try three times, and at the failures the guards become increasingly restless.

“See? Just a long password. You know how it is.”

“Get moving.”

Hugh checks the instructions on his padd and heads for the panel underneath the window on the right. The still-rumpled sheets on Paul’s bed remind him of what might have been their last night together before Paul went into his coma -

_ Fucking focus, Hugh. _

“I’m getting out a screwdriver,” he says loudly to the guards, feeling their watchfulness at his back. He pulls the screwdriver from his pocket and kneels before the wall panel, touching for the five rubber stops concealing the bolt heads and peeling them back as he finds them.

He latches the magnetic driver into place over each of the five bolts, lining up the removed bolts on the carpet to the right of the panel.

He sets the driver down next to the fifth bolt and gingerly pulls the plate from the wall.

“Ha, just where that fool told me,” he murmurs, adding a note of triumph for the benefit of the guards. He pulls the metallic hard-sided case, smaller than the Empire-issued moving cases, but larger than a briefcase, from the wall and lays it at his knees. “Now, just to open it and confirm the contents.”

He makes a show of feeling around the edges of the case for locks or booby traps. But Paul had told him there were none. An unusual oversight from the security-conscious scientist, but neither of them had anticipated Paul being taken captive by Lorca… Hugh disengages the two latches and the lid gently opens on its tiny hydraulic hinges.

Unfamiliar clothes, in stunning shades of blue ( _ what would Paul look like in these? _ ) are stuffed inside. He pulls them out and lays them next to the bolts. Beneath are a handful of padds and a hypospray.

Hugh takes a deep breath as he reaches for the hypo. This needs to happen just right.

“This is what I’m looking for,” he says, holding it aloft as he turns toward the guards. “A bioweapon he was keeping secret. The emperor needs it.”

They take a step back. Hugh pulls up his hands, non-threateningly, as he gets to his feet. “No, no, don’t worry, I just want you to take this to her.” He waits for their postures to relax.

They remain rigid. “You just told us this is a bioweapon,” Red Beard says. “You carry it.”

“Lead the way,” Hugh offers.

“You first,” growls the one with the meticulously groomed eyebrows.

Hugh bows his head and moves to take the lead, trying not to give his plan away.

As he passes Red Beard, he rotates the hypo in his right hand and presses it against the man’s arm, readying his dagger to his left hand.

“Hey!” shouts Red Beard as the hypo hisses against his skin. Hugh follows the administration of the sleeping drug with a well-placed elbow to the gut, hopefully throwing him off balance just long enough for the drugs to kick in.

But he’s been too preoccupied with Red Beard to notice Fancy Eyebrows bringing his ornamental staff around to the side, finally realizing the movement just before it whacks against his left side, sending him tumbling after Red Beard.

Hugh tries to use the bit of momentum to roll further away from the guard, but he lands with more of a thud, twisting to face his attacker. He knows the man will be readying the staff’s pointed tip, if not a phaser. 

Just as Hugh feared, Fancy Eyebrows is already striking down with the tip of the staff. As Hugh contorts to avoid the blow, he flails out with his right arm toward the man’s forward leg, pushing the hypo against him roughly.

There’s no reassuring hiss and Fancy Eyebrows quickly repositions the staff to send it down into Hugh’s body.

The staff tip lands in his gut with a strange pressure, more than pain, and Hugh watches with grim fascination as Fancy Eyebrows lifts the staff, the end of it detaching to be left inside his own body.

Hugh rolls toward Fancy Eyebrows, realizing belatedly that whatever he was attacked with is going to stab him deeper, while hurling both arms with all his strength at the man’s legs. This time, the hypospray makes contact and injects its medication into Fancy Eyebrows.

Pain takes over every other sensation and emotion in Hugh’s body; he lets out an agonized, frustrated yell, a sound he’s never heard from himself. He can’t see, or hear, he’s paralyzed by it, even as the pain lessens, it’s still more than he’s ever felt.

Heavy, stumbling footsteps by his head and a faint moan are all the warning Hugh has before the body of Fancy Eyebrows crumples over him. There’s a rush of warmth, another soft moan, and silence.

Hugh marshals strength into his aching, weak arms and pushes Fancy Eyebrows off of him with an agonized groan, collapsing back onto his back.

It takes several moments before he realizes that the warmth on his arms and spreading over his face is blood. Fancy Eyebrows’s blood. He was still holding his dagger.

Somewhere nearby, Red Beard is snoring.

His limbs feel weak, his stomach caught between pain and nausea, and the sticky smell of blood covers him.

“Shit,” he says into the silence, and even speaking hurts.

He’s killed someone. Maybe two someones; Paul’s normal dose of sleeping aids  _ would _ kill a regular person.

And Hugh is bleeding out on the floor, or will be soon, if he doesn’t get medical help.  _ Wouldn’t that be ironic, if I bleed to death in Paul’s quarters trying to save his ass after all the shit he’s pulled _ .

He reaches for his padd, but it’s nowhere on his belt. He tilts his head carefully left and right. Nothing. Finally he looks up a little, and catches sight of it, lying on the floor next to the open case.

He’d almost left Paul’s padds and clothes behind.

_ Really fucking botched that one, Hugh. Fantastic move. _

But the other stubborn part of him snaps back,  _ I’m going to get out of here no matter what. _

He turns onto his left side and extends his left arm carefully above his head, digging his fingers into the short fibers of the carpet. He moves his left foot up and pushes himself toward the padd, using his arm to pull himself a little further.

The slide  _ hurts,  _ a radiating pain that comes from his belly and spreads outward. He still can’t bring himself to look at the wound, no matter how much the doctor in him wants to know.

Maybe three more of these movements will get him there. But he’s panting with the exertion, and his limbs are like jelly, and he just wants to rest. Maybe close his eyes…

_ No. _

He pushes and drags again, letting out another subdued yell.

“Goddammit, Paul!” he hisses to a higher power he has never once believed in, and he can feel his own blood spilling out of him. Is this how it ends?

Two more. If he can stay conscious.

Push, drag, groan. Push, drag, shout.

His fingers close around the padd and with shaking, painfully slow fingers, he types.

_ 498754892(hyper-encrypted): i need help _

_ 948349404(hyper-encrypted): Where are you? _

_ 498754892(hyper-encrypted): his quarters _

_ 948349404(hyper-encrypted): What the fuck are you doing there? _

_ 498754892(hyper-encrypted): hurt, help. _

He wakes up on a biobed in one of the private examination rooms.

“Wha?” he mumbles, grimacing at the immediate pain, trying not to squirm from it. “Trace - Tracy, did you get his things?”

“I beamed out the open case, yes,” she says. “Clothes and padds? That’s all? You risked your whole life for his THINGS?”

He doesn’t have to open his eyes all the way to know she is judging him, harshly. “I-”

“Love makes a person do the most ridiculous things,” she grumbles as her voice moves from the right side of his bed down to the foot, then up to the left side. He hears the click of a forcefield. “That’s the door shield,” she says. “Now you’ve roped me into this mess and I’m not putting either of us at risk. What the hell are you trying to pull?”

“We’re… leaving,” he says in a small voice, both sheepish and pained, through purposeful breaths designed to try to keep himself from screaming. “Or trying to.”

“And here I was hoping I could convince you to work undercover with me.” The soft hum of a scanner passes over him, and then he feels the pressure of a hypo against his neck.

“I’ve been-” The pain relief comes almost as a blow, the sweet release a sudden comfort. “God, Tracy, thank you.” He takes deep breaths, relaxation flooding through his limbs, now. After a moment, listening to Tracy work above him, he continues, “I’ve been wanting to leave for such a long time. I didn’t think it was possible. You showed me it was possible to even think about. And now -”

“And now you’ve decided to seize the current moment of wild instability to launch a desperate foolish campaign for freedom,” Tracy finishes for him. “I’ve seen stupider plans than this, but not by far.”

Hugh finally opens his eyes, taking in Tracy’s exasperated expression, her afro framing her face as if she were one of those medieval angel paintings he’d seen in an art museum, a relic of humanity’s grim and primitive days... “You gave me hope, Tracy. I know you wouldn’t tell me it was stupid to hope for things.”

She rolls her eyes, sighing heavily. “You try to train a person to join the resistance and they just run off with these  _ ideas  _ about love and happiness.”

“I know about your husband, Tracy, don’t try to act like you’re immune to this.”

“I’ve been serving here for five years without him, so you don’t try to tell  _ me _ I’m not right about the kinds of sacrifices we all  _ have _ to make. You’re starry-eyed and you’re in love, but Hugh,  _ people don’t escape the emperor’s flagship _ . We have  _ tried _ .”

“Before I met Paul…”

“Oh, god, here we go. Meanwhile, hold still for a couple minutes while I run the dermal regenerator, will you?”

He sets himself still. “Listen to me,” he says as firmly as he can to the doctor who is treating his wounds.

“Fine.”

“Before I met Paul, I… was just going through the motions. I had been for years. Stay out of trouble, stay out of sight, find a little respite where I could. I wasn’t really living. Now that I have this -”

“You’ll do any jackass thing to keep it going. Including risking your whole damn life.”

“If you want to put it  _ that way _ . I just… don’t want to live like this anymore. And I’m not a fighter, Tracy. I mean… I can be, but look at me back there.” With how hard he’s worked to save lives over the years, it’ll be a long time before he feels okay about killing the guards, no matter how necessary it was. He swallows down his nausea with a shudder. “I’m a doctor. I know about fixing injuries and sickness. I don’t know about spying or undercover work. I’m  _ tired _ .”

“I know all about being tired.”

“I don’t know what I could do if I get to leave. But maybe you could… connect me with someone? Are there people who help… deserters?” Calling himself that stings, unexpectedly. He’s spent a lot of his life looking down on people who abandon their post, other doctors and nurses who disappeared from ships he worked on and never came back.

“Yes. But… with Paul? He’s a selfish, spineless man.” She scowls. Tracy’s never spoken of Paul’s character, and he’d suspected but…

“That’s not fair and you know it. I know he doesn’t come off very well but -”

“The resistance has had him under surveillance for some time. His research is responsible for thousands of deaths. And he just now killed hundreds of soldiers with that bioweapon of his.”

“All of us are responsible for thousands of deaths,” Hugh snaps. “Didn’t you say that to me?”

“That may be,” Tracy says slowly, “but if you leave here with him there aren’t many places I can send you where his safety is guaranteed. Maybe not any.”

“We  _ will _ both die on this ship in the next couple days if we don’t leave,” Hugh says. “I’ve killed one or two of the emperor’s guards. Paul is with Lorca’s crew. He’s not safe with them or with the emperor. But he does know more than maybe anyone outside of the security crew about how this ship works and how to rig systems to keep himself safe.” He looks up at her intently. “You should come with us. Might be your best chance.”

Tracy nods, letting out a smaller sigh. “I’ll see what I can do.”


	8. Chapter 8

Paul taps away furiously on his padd and console. There has to be a way he can disable the drive remotely, or right before they leave the ship. Covering his tracks is not too hard, with enough time, but he has no idea how much time he has.

“What are you doing?” Landry snaps from across the room. She’s glaring daggers like she always does.

“I’m masking the source of the communications, like I was _asked_ ,” he snaps back. “Do you need a status report every five minutes?” She sneers at him and turns back to her own work.

In truth, he’d finished that task ten minutes ago. It’s a perk of being completely brilliant that even his wildly inflated time estimates seem halfway believable to others. Probably part of the reason he’s still alive at this point.

And in a little while, when he announces, with great irritation, that he’s finished the task, it’s not a lie. He did finish it. Maybe he didn’t spend as much time on it as he could have, but he has something far more important to do.

Paul can’t help but roll his eyes as Lorca begins to speak on the open channel to the entire ship. All of this language, he’s heard it before. Renounce one leader, join another. _This time_ , you’ll be truly powerful and successful. The mention of Michael Burnham being back does catch him by surprise, a bit – yet another despot he could do without.

The only thing a new leader of this terrible place offers is an opportunity to be slightly more or less comfortable than you were.

Lorca and Landry want to start taking the ship, deck by deck, and they want Paul’s help to do it. Unfortunately, Lorca knows all about how much technical expertise Paul has been amassing over the years, and with a phaser always pointed at his head, whether literally or metaphorically, he doesn’t have much choice but to use it.

Lorca’s main crew of about 20 soldiers leaves the lab to begin the clean-up operation, as they’re calling it. Paul has his hands full with his padds but Landry doesn’t let him lag too far back in the firing line, of course.

When the first phaser fire flashes up ahead of them, Paul immediately runs for cover. Landry tries to grab him and stop him, but the intensifying phaser fire means she chooses her own life over trying to endanger his. As he crouches behind one of the arches, he is alternately petrified and absolutely incandescent with anger. Fuck her petty hatred. All these manipulative assholes have been trying to take him down for years, but they always want and need something from him. They hate him, they can’t live without him. Fine.

The phaser fire diminishes, enough that the sound of running boots, headed away from their clot of fighters, is audible. Moments later, the phaser fire stops, and one of Lorca’s lieutenants lets out a triumphant yell. “Owosekun. We’ve got her!”

“Well, well, well,” Lorca says with his typical nauseating swagger. “Georgiou’s trusted defense leader - now in our command.”

“Fuck you,” Owosekun exclaims.

Paul gets to his feet hesitantly, peeking around the corner. Lorca and Landry have moved to stand next to Owosekun, their phasers pointed at her.

“If you want to live, you’ll do exactly what we say.”

They continue their march through the deck, clearing it of disloyal soldiers. There are still bodies here and there, foaming with the effects of the bioweapon, and Paul is vaguely aware that this should be repulsive to him, but all he can see are the bodies of people wearing _her_ uniform, loyal to _her_ work, and as much as he hates working for Lorca too… this is the chance he’s been wanting for years, a chance to lay waste to this whole fucking edifice.

He’d like to follow along with some of Landry’s soldiers who don’t completely despise him, but if he strays too far from Landry she gets… hostile. So he busies himself as they move, trying to hack into surveillance systems along the route.

“I’ve got her,” he announces suddenly. “Next deck up, two sections away. Moving fast. If we go up the emergency ladder at the end of this corridor we could intercept.”

“Let’s move,” Lorca orders.

Lorca convinces Owosekun, at phaser point, to approach the emperor. Paul cringes, out of sight, because he knows how this goes, but then again, Owosekun probably knew how this was ending the moment she was captured.

He hides in the shadows again. No one is going to give him a phaser. Again. He knows how this goes.

The approaching click of the emperor’s heels sends an irrepressible shudder through him. _Never again. Never again. She doesn’t get to win._ He barely hears Owosekun speak. But Lorca’s voice rings out clearly.

“Hello, Pippa, did you miss me?”

The phaser fire starts and he feels oddly calm as these deadly beams of energy crackle across the grand hall.

Lorca demands he help take down a forcefield that snaps into place. Working quickly, he tries to disable the system.

But she beams out before they can get to her.

“You didn’t warn me she had an emergency transport system,” Lorca says menacingly.

He really doesn’t want to get shot, so he gets to work disabling the emperor's access to that program.

 _Of course I didn’t tell you. It’s_ my _emergency transport system too._

_498754892(hyper-encrypted): I have your stuff, Paul.  
_

_498754892(hyper-encrypted): How are you going to get out of there?_

_019238448(hyper-encrypted): I have a plan. I need you to get as close as you can to the escape pod, find a console you can hack, and run some programs for me._

_498754892(hyper-encrypted): I’m not a hacker, Paul._

_019238448(hyper-encrypted): We said we weren’t going to use names on this connection._

_498754892(hyper-encrypted): For fuck’s sake, we are way past that being an issue._

_019238448(hyper-encrypted): Fine. Hugh. Listen to me. Go somewhere safe that you can use a console. Run the passwords program, then run the medical records program. And wait there, wherever you are, until I get there. [Attachments: medical records | passwords]_

_498754892(hyper-encrypted): Okay. I’m bringing a friend. I hope we can do this._

_019238448(hyper-encrypted): Your friend had better be trustworthy._

_498754892(hyper-encrypted): Don’t worry about that. Please stay safe._

Hugh looks up from his padd. “Do you know how to hack a console?”

Tracy sighs. “I know a few things. Why?”

He shows her the messages from Paul. “He wants me to run these programs. I think… I think he has a plan to get away from Lorca.”

She takes the padd from him and scrutinizes the messages. “Can I look at the code of these programs?”

“If you can do it safely.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’ve been at this for years, Hugh. Yes.” Tracy moves over to the console on the wall and places the padd in the dock.

Hugh watches for a few moments, until he realizes that she’s reading the code in earnest. He stares up at the ceiling, feeling the slight pulls and tickles of the dermal regenerator working.

Not only has he killed someone, he almost died himself.

Just to save Paul’s research.

Abruptly, Tracy turns off the dermal regen and disconnects the padd. “We can’t stay here, Hugh. We need to get as close to the escape pods as possible. You good to walk?”

He feels like shit warmed over as he sits up and gently lowers his feet to the floor. Tracy gives him a hypospray of a stimulant. An off-label use, to be sure, but it puts a little spring in his step as they gather their things.

Lorca is insufferable as always as he triumphantly leads them into the emperor’s throne room. It’s been a very long time since Paul has been here. The sheer pageantry of this room - just think of all the resources his work could have gotten if the emperor hadn’t renovated it last year. 

A fresh wave of terror washes over him as they stop partway into the room. He’s gotten Lorca here, as he wanted. Is there anything more Lorca could need from him? Paul should have run much sooner, actually. He doesn’t know what kind of safeties are at work here, what technologies might prevent his escape here more than anywhere else. He’s been thorough as he could be…

“Believe in destiny now, Mr. Stamets?” Lorca regards him smugly, clearly basking in his victory.

“That’s, uh, rhetorical, right?”

“Your lack of vision continues to disappoint me.”

Lorca presses a button, and a panel in the floor slides open, revealing the orb of the mycelial drive below.

_Oh, shit._

Lorca continues, “The living core of the mycelial network.” _So this is how it ends._ “It’s poetic justice, don’t you think? Scientist destroyed by his own creation?” _Will the program work if he pushes me off the ship?_ _Should I run?_ Lorca’s expression hardens. “Just kidding, I hate poetry.”

He hears the phaser fire before he feels it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more long chapter to go after this, to be posted very soon. Thank you for sticking with me. <3


	9. Chapter 9

They’ve been running the program in the maintenance room near the escape pods for just a few minutes when Tracy announces, “There’s something blinking on the screen.”

And then a transporter beam appears before them, resolving into the crumpling shape of Paul, immediately pitching forward onto his hands and knees.

“Paul!”

Paul lets out a pained groan, and Hugh fumbles for his tricorder as he reaches his partner’s side. “Wish you would have told me what those programs do.” And then he sees the phaser burns on Paul’s back. “What the hell happened?”

The tricorder readings are showing severe shock and skin damage.

Between labored breaths, Paul whispers, “I can't believe - it worked. I interfaced - my medical implant - with the emperor’s - emergency transporter system and holographic emitters... Beamed me out when they shot me. Made it look like - a phaser dematerialization.”

“They _shot_ you?” Hugh exclaims, although more from anger than surprise - the evidence is right in front of him.

Paul’s left shoulder twitches. “They got - what they needed - from me,” he mumbles.

“Can I get you to lie down? I want to see if I can do any regenerative work before we go for the escape pod.”

“I could use a nap,” Paul agrees as he lowers himself clumsily the rest of the way to the floor.

“No, no sleeping. I need you awake, Paul.”

Tracy is still standing by the door to the maintenance room. “Hugh, I don’t think we have time for this. We need to get off the ship. Now. Every moment we stay is a moment we’re in danger. If they trace that transporter signal -”

“I _know_ , Tracy, but he can barely stand. We need him functional until we’re well on our way. To wherever it is we’re going.”

“You two don’t even know where we’re going?” Paul murmurs from the floor, his head pillowed on his hands.

“I know where we’re going, but I’m not going to tell _you_ ,” Tracy snaps.

Hugh rolls his eyes. “Tracy, would you get the dermal and deep tissue regenerators and just help me out? I’m trying to see if there any other damage here _and neither of you are helping_.”

“Hugh Culber…” Tracy begins sternly, even as she brings the medkit over.

“We’re not going anywhere until he’s stable.” Hugh lifts his head and locks eyes with her. “It’ll take ten minutes.”

“Lorca - won,” Paul gasps. “He has the throne room.”

Tracy sighs. “Five minutes, Hugh, then we’re carrying him.”

Hugh rolls his eyes again. “Fine. Five minutes. Fucking run the regenerators.”

His eyes fly over the readings from the tricorder - some residual organ damage from the phaser blast, heart and lungs, not great but there’s no time or equipment to deal with it. Paul will survive without that treatment. He spares a quick thought that wherever they’re going might not have the supplies either - but there’s no going back now.

He glances back at Paul; his eyes are closed. “Paul!” He shakes his shoulder. “Paul, you need to stay awake. We have to get to the escape pod.”

“Mmmmmmmm.”

“Paul!” He shakes him again. This time no response. _Fuck._ “How’s that regen going, Trace?”

“Should have him stable in a minute. If we can get him awake.”

“20cc of inaprovaline,” Hugh orders.

“On it.”

Tracy administers the hypo as Hugh continues to assess the damage and make notes for later treatment. It looks bad.

“Paul,” Hugh tries again. “We need to go.”

“Mmmm. No.”

Tracy casts an exasperated look at Hugh. “Better than before. Give him the stimulant hypo and let’s go.” She moves around to Paul’s other side and together, they roll him over, keeping his back from touching the floor, and lift him to his feet. Hugh administers the hypo to Paul’s slack neck, but it seems to just barely get him upright.

Hugh slings Paul’s left arm over his shoulder, gripping his waist with his right hand, trying to support his whole weight while Tracy slings Paul’s case over Hugh’s shoulder and hands him a phaser. She slings the medkit over her own shoulder and takes the phaser rifle.

“Stay close on my back,” she orders. “I’m going to go as fast as we can.”

“Where are we going?” Paul mumbles, eyes barely open and head tilted forward. Paul labors to put one foot in front of the other.

“We just need to get to the escape pod, remember? One hundred meters. I need you to focus. You’ve gotten this far. We’re gonna get out of here.” He squeezes Paul’s waist gently. “We’re going to be safe.”

Paul laughs quietly. “Okay?”

Paul doesn’t believe him, obviously, and Hugh wouldn’t have before, but here they’re going, Hugh almost dragging Paul next to him as Tracy moves altogether too fast to the T-junction of the corridor.

Hugh watches Tracy closely as she looks both ways. Her movements are quick, practiced, professional looking, as if she trained for secret ops. She gestures to follow her to the right, toward their targeted escape pod.

Terror suddenly floods into Hugh’s system and his limbs feel weak, exactly what he doesn’t need with a whole Paul Stamets to keep upright and moving. “Paul, can you stand up a little more?” he whispers into his ear. “I can’t support your whole weight.”

“My back hurts like hell,” Paul says, too loudly.

“Shhhhh!”

“Well, it does.”

“If you don’t keep your voice down someone will -”

And just like that, a burst of phaser fire sounds behind him, and a black mark appears on the brassy corridor wall.

Hugh yanks Paul aside into the doorway across the hall.

As he tries to brace Paul upright against the doorframe with his right hand while readying his phaser to his left Tracy’s running into the next doorway closer to the source of the phaser fire, her own phaser blazing.

“If they heard me talking, they were already too close,” Paul says as Hugh peeks around the corner and fires, a shot that goes way off from the soldiers who are themselves taking shelter at the other end of the corridor. He ducks back into the doorway, checking Paul’s drooping eyes, his half-amused expression.

Belatedly Paul’s words catch up with Hugh. He’s not wrong, but leave it to Paul to stubbornly argue the point while they are literally under fire. “Shut up and just stay standing.”

“Hand me my case.”

“Not right now, we’re under fucking fire in case you haven’t noticed.” Tracy is once again sprinting for the next doorway, spraying phaser fire as she goes, and he adds a couple of shots of his own. He can feel Paul’s hands fumbling at the case still slung around Hugh’s shoulders.

“I have something in here,” Paul says, finally unlatching the case and rummaging around as Hugh continues to make hesitant glances into the hall, adding shots when he thinks he’s not putting Tracy in danger. He hits the corridor walls more often than not. It really has been a while since he put in the hours for his weapons certifications… “Tell Tracy to fall back.”

“Why?” Hugh demands. Paul is holding a metal sphere the size of a ping-pong ball.

“If she gets a lungful of this, she’ll die. That’s why.”

“You’re full of surprises.” Paul is drugged out of his mind and barely able to stand, but somehow he can remember and retrieve the weapons that he has stashed everywhere.

“I didn’t survive this long without them,” Paul says simply with a shrug. He uses his other hand to clumsily push the case closed again and latch it. “Come on.”

“Fall back, Tracy!”

“What?”

“Fall back! I’ll cover you!”

She looks back at him and he tries to convince her with a wide-eyed urgent expression, looking meaningfully at the doorway across the corridor from him.

She fires multiple times as she runs backward toward them, an artful motion that briefly captures Hugh’s attention before he belatedly covers her with his erratic phaser fire

“Roll this down the hall as hard as you can,” Paul instructs him. “When the smoke starts coming out we have to run.”

“Run?”

“Well, as fast as we can,” Paul allows with a weary smile. He presses his thumb into the side of the ball. “Throw it, now.”

Hugh throws the ball underhand down the hall, watching it roll past Tracy and toward where, he hopes, the soldiers firing on them aren’t wearing masks or anything. A trail of smoke begins to spill from the ball as it rolls. “Let’s go!” he shouts, grabbing Paul’s arm and throwing it over his shoulders again.

Paul’s a little more awake this time and able to help Hugh as they amble down the corridor. Tracy’s at their back, firing to ward off a rear attack. Hugh’s trying to keep his phaser ready and hold Paul upright.If anyone appears in front of them they’re likely to die.

“They - don’t seem - to be - following,” Tracy says.

“Are you okay?” Hugh doesn’t like the sound of her labored breaths.

“Just gotta - keep moving.”

They reach the next T-junction. “Left?” he asks, trying to shield Paul with his body as they approach, moving up to the wall to check that the coast is clear.

Tracy, meanwhile, barges directly into the corridor, phaser pointed and ready. She pivots to look down the hall behind them, pivots again, and motions them to proceed. “It’s not - far now. Final - stretch, let’s go. Fast.”

Hugh feels Paul dig deep for reserves and he’s almost fully walking now, letting out pained gasps with each step. Hugh’s right there with him, trying to keep him steady, trying not to jostle the fresh skin on his back or squeeze too tightly where there might be internal damage yet to be repaired.

“Here,” Tracy says, turning right into a large doorway. She taps urgently at the console on the left side of the doorway, and Hugh sees unfamiliar dialogs and windows pop up as she works.

Paul is even paler than usual, a little slumped down, looking up at him with half-open eyes, a tight-lipped smile.

The door hisses and whirs open behind them, and Tracy’s fingers are still flying over the screen. “I don’t want anyone to be able to disengage these permissions from the outside when we’re trying to leave,” she says. “You go ahead, get in there.”

“No. We’re not leaving you.”

Tracy doesn’t even look at him, just points. “I’m your commanding officer, Dr. Culber. Get the fuck in that pod.”

Somehow in all his years of service, Hugh’s never had to use an escape pod. He’s trained to use them, but this ship is much newer than any other ship he’s served on. On the other side of the door is the airlock, and the door to the pod itself is also open, a doorway just tall enough for him and Paul to duck their heads and get into.

Paul groans at the movements as they amble into the pod. To the right, there are benches on either side, long enough to hold 10 or 15 people. The cockpit with two seats is to the left.

Paul needs to sit upright, supported, so he needs to be in the cockpit, but he’s not competent to fly either, so he shouldn’t be there.

Hugh glances back and forth for tense seconds. Now what? How can he keep Paul safe?

The sound of a phaser striking the wall somewhere behind them jolts him. Tracy shouts, “Fuck!” and there’s just no more time. Hugh guides Paul into the copilot’s seat and engages the emergency belts with the button on the armrest as he slides into the pilot’s seat.

“Tracy!” Hugh shouts, scanning the controls in a panic. They can’t use the autopilot as it will take them to a Terran world. Fumbling over the keys, he finds the autopilot toggle and disables it. Tracy will have to set a course for them.

He glances over and Tracy is firing frantically down the hall. “I’m going to close the door, Trace, come on!”

She holds up three fingers as she fires a few more short blasts, ducking to the side to avoid another shot that grazes the console.

He can’t breathe. He can’t leave her. What’s around the corner there that she can’t run?

Suddenly she forms a fist. “Launch! Now!”

He slams the big red, primitive-looking Launch button and she sprints for the hatch, making it in just as the door swings down into place.

“Why is he in the co-pilot’s seat?” she demands as the docking clamps release.

There’s an explosion as the pod breaks free, and it banks perilously to the right. Inertial dampers don’t seem to be working. Tracy grips the headrest of his seat with both hands.

“Is that normal?” Hugh asks, hearing his voice coming out at a much higher pitch than usual.

“No. Get up, let me fly.”

The pod attempts to level itself out, and Hugh fights gravity to get out of his seat and relinquish it to Tracy.

“Did you program our destination?” She slides into the seat quickly as the pod rocks back and forth. Hugh stumbles around the backs of the chairs to brace himself against the side of the pod to Paul’s right, fumbling for Paul’s hand.

“No, I -” The pod rattles again, and Hugh feels sick. “Does this thing have inertial dampers?”

“It should have,” Tracy says dryly, fingers flying again over the console. Hugh squeezes Paul’s hand, more for his own comfort than Paul’s, watching her work. “Right now, I’m just trying to make sure we’re not telegraphing our position and our destination. I didn’t have time to reprogram before.”

The pod rocks again.

“There’s a huge energy build up coming from the Charon,” Tracy says.

Paul sits up straighter. “That shouldn’t be happening. I disabled the-“

“Another ship just fired into the core.”

Paul’s head whips around. “They did _what_?”

“I need to put us into full impulse or we’re in deep trouble. Hugh, hold on with all your strength.”

Hugh tries to comprehend the words as he reaches his free hand for the handrail attached to the front console, braces his feet against the base of Paul’s chair and his back against the wall of the pod.

The acceleration is disorienting, nauseating, and Hugh closes his eyes, gripping Paul’s hand, feeling his solid, strong hand holding him steady. They’re doing it.

There’s a gentle rocking of the pod when the shockwave of the explosion hits, and then the Charon disappears from the console entirely.

“Nobody’s following us still,” Tracy reports three hours later. Hugh had finally got Paul to sleep and had laid down on the opposite bench for a little rest of his own.

He’d helped Paul back to the benches, to lie on his stomach so Hugh could finish the regeneration procedures. The healing was more like stapling his insides together than the kind of smooth, delicate work he’d want to do to make sure Paul can breathe and digest correctly.

Paul is sleeping soundly, no doubt from both his injuries and his exhaustion, plus the very slight sedative Hugh gave him. Ideally he wouldn’t have given him anything at all, trying not to get Paul back in the habit of taking such drugs, but Paul was more restless than someone in his condition had any right to be (probably that stimulant kicking in a little too late). Hugh can acknowledge, gazing across the escape pod at his sleeping form, that the sedative was necessary.

How he’ll respond when they end up living somewhere, where, most likely, such sedatives won’t even be available - well, that’s a consideration for another time.

He’d fallen asleep for probably just a short time, but the occasional rattling from the pod woke him…

“Did you even hear me?” Tracy gripes, pulling Hugh from his obsessive recounting of the last few hours.

“Yeah, I heard you.” He gets to his feet slowly, his knees protesting the effort. Fully upright, now his sense of balance is disrupted… He’s been awake for a long time now, and he’d love to join Paul in a deep slumber - would love to curl up next to him, if there was room - but Tracy deserves a break too. He walks the few feet over to the pilot’s chair. “Let me take over for you for a while.”

“You barely know how to fly.” Her voice is rough with the long hours of consciousness, and he can see the bags under her eyes even in the reflection from the viewscreen.

“I’ll wake you up if I need help,” he retorts. “Any warm body can stare at the controls and yell if something turns red.”

Tracy lets out a bark of a laugh, smiling at his reflection. “All right.” She levers herself out of the chair with a groan and hobbles over to the bench. He lowers himself down in her place and surveys the controls.

Tracy still hasn’t told them where they’re going, although the coordinates are displayed on screen. It’s a world just over the edge of the empire’s current territory, where control is likely to be contested - that much he can see on the screen.

Four weeks ago, Hugh could never have imagined himself leaving the empire. It had seemed not just impossible, but unwise. He didn’t _like_ his life, but nobody did, did they? Life was about endless compromises, making do, knuckling under, staying out of the way.

Maybe in some way he and Paul had seen that in each other.

But it was only because of Tracy that they had actually managed to form any sort of plan.

And now the entire Charon was gone, thousands of people he’d spent years with there or on other ships. Deshaun, if he hadn’t already died in the agonizers. All the nurses and doctors.

The emperor.

Hugh spares a glance back to Paul, who still seems to be sleeping soundly. What will it do for Paul, to know that the emperor is dead? Will he feel a weight removed? Or will it let loose everything else he has likely been suppressing for survival? Maybe both, since Hugh is now feeling his own fresh shame and anger at the thought of her.

And the further thought of knowing he can never contact his family now. They’ll think him dead. And it’s better that they do. He bites his lip against the flood of feelings that unleashes in him. He hasn’t cried in a long time. He’s not about to start now. But even that thought threatens his composure, and he bites down harder, just short of making his lips bleed. Tracy and Paul need to rest. He has to set this aside. He knows how to do this, hasn’t he always?

Paul’s eyes snap open. The wall inches from his face is unfamiliar. The ground beneath him is shuddering slightly. Is the Charon under attack? He tries to roll over but his back and torso scream with pain, bringing him to an abrupt halt, and then he’s flooded by the memories.

Laying facedown on the floor in a storage closet, Hugh tending his wounds, Tracy and Hugh arguing above him.

Hugh practically dragging his useless body through the halls, while he struggled mightily just to keep his feet beneath him.

That grenade he’d found, fumbling through a haze of pain and disbelief.

The phaser fire.

Lorca staring him down, telling him he hates poetry. The burning as he dematerialized. _Fuck_.

He shifts and pain lances through him again. He groans helplessly.

“Paul?” The sound of Hugh’s unbearably gentle voice, uttering his name like a precious word.

“Hugh?” His own voice cracks and wavers on the name. He hates how weak he sounds, and moments later, how much _relief_ he feels when Hugh’s hand touches his shoulder. “Where are we?”

“We’re on our way to a resistance base.”

This was the plan all along, of course, but a fresh wave of panic hits him. “Did my research make it? Are they going to lock me up?”

“Paul. Breathe. Here, can I help you roll over facing me?”

He winces, anticipating that pain, but nods. He starts the movement, and Hugh’s hands help him through the motion as he gasps out his discomfort. “Fuck,” he breathes as he settles in, Hugh’s face just inches from his own now. “That fucking hurts. Do you have a hypo?”

Hugh shakes his head. “We need to ration it, for now, I don’t know what the medical facilities are like where we’re going.”

Paul believes him, and doesn’t believe him. Hugh thinks he’s an addict, and maybe he is, but… he’s been shot with a fucking phaser. “Well, if you’re going to be that way, don’t roll me over again.”

“Okay.” Again, with the gentleness of his voice. It reminds him of his mother, the times she would hold him when he was little, tell him he was fine when the other kids would tease him, tell him stories and kiss him on the cheek… “You’re going to be okay, Paul.”

“You don’t know that.”

Hugh sighs. “Fine, I don’t know that. But Paul. We made it. Whatever happens now… we’re free.”

Paul suddenly remembers Tracy talking about the mycelial hub… “Did the… Charon… explode?”

“Yeah.”

He’d built that drive. So many late nights of work, so much research and trial and error. The greatest achievement of his life. He’d planned to disable it, but now… it’s just gone.“My research, do you have it?”

“I still have it, Paul.”

Whatever happens, his life’s work isn’t lost. And it no longer belongs to _her_.

“The emperor?”

“I doubt anyone could have survived that. The whole thing seemed to disintegrate in the blast. It was the ISS Discovery that blew it up.”

The only emotion he feels about that news is surprise. Surprise that he doesn’t feel like dancing on her grave. “That’s a relief,” he decides to say. Or maybe it will be, in time.

Hugh seems to be examining his expression closely, then about to say something. But he doesn’t, just taking Paul’s hand and squeezing it. “Yeah.”

A chime sounds from the pod’s console, and Hugh rockets to his feet, hurrying over to check the source. “We’re being hailed by a resistance vessel. Tracy!”

Tracy, who up to this point had appeared to be fast asleep on the bench across from Paul, also bolts up and hurries to the console. “I need you to step back, Hugh. I should be the only person they see until I explain the situation further.”

Hugh returns to crouch by Paul’s side. “We’d thought it would be a few days’ more journey, at the speed this thing is capable of, but maybe the ship can pick us up,” he explains, taking Paul’s hand again. Paul relents to the strange affection Hugh has for handholding. It feels strange to touch in front of anyone else. How they had had to manipulate the appearance of their own relationship for their own protection. And now Hugh’s taking his hand in front of a resistance operative who could, by no stretch of the imagination, turn on them at any moment. Turn on _him_. Certainly Hugh has never done anything as repulsive to the empire’s enemies as Paul has.

Tracy is talking in a very low voice to the console, and try as he might, Paul can’t understand much of it. He catches the words “scientist” and “research.”

“You better not be handing over my work to someone else,” he says loudly.

“You better not look a gift horse in the mouth, Mr. Stamets,” Tracy snaps. “I’m saving your damn life.”

“Stamets?” Through the console, the person on the other end exclaims his name with such shock that Paul’s palms begin to sweat and his heart races.

“Hugh, they’re going to confiscate my research, I can’t let them do that!” he hisses.

He’d expected sympathy, but he gets only Hugh’s tight-lipped response, “Nobody said this was going to be easy, Paul.”

“The only reason I left was -”

“Saving your research?” Hugh says, voice rising. “Only to save your research?”

“No, I - you -”

“Save it. We both know what you meant.” Hugh gets to his feet and moves to the far corner of the opposite bench, curling into the corner and looking away from Paul.

A beep from the front console signals the end of the call. “You can’t be allowed to run bioweapon experiments that will kill our people,” Tracy interjects from the pilot’s seat. “We can talk about legitimate uses of your ‘research’ later.”

“You’ll be sorry if you just set all that work aside,” Paul says. “You’ll be missing out on some of the greatest advances in science ever made.”

Tracy gets up from the seat and turns to face Hugh. “Is he always this full of himself?”

“Probably only when he’s trying to save his own ass,” Hugh says. Paul shoots him an annoyed look, and at least there’s a tiny smile at the end of what was otherwise a fairly bitter statement.

“Well, we’re in luck.” Tracy looks over at Paul. “We made contact with the ship that picked up some of the escaped rebels from the Firewolf’s encampment. They’ll take us aboard and we’re all going to go to a different base, further outside the empire’s territory, at least for a while.” She sighs. “And I do have to take your research.”

“No!”

“Paul, shut up,” Hugh snaps, and that cuts him deeper than expected.

“Freedom has its costs. This isn’t optional. You’re _only_ here because Hugh was willing to vouch for you. I would have gladly left you behind.”

Paul scowls at her. “I’m glad we got off to such a good start, _doctor._ ”

“We’ll have an even better start if you don’t make our necessary work more difficult.” She picks up Paul’s case from the head of the bench, rifling through it and pulling out a fistful of padds. He would have despaired further, but he looks up and sees Hugh’s amused grin at him, and he should be angry that Hugh is getting such a kick out of his suffering, but instead he just feels warmth.

His work is his life. But _Hugh_ was the point of leaving. If he has to rebuild everything else from scratch, well. At least there’s Hugh.

And if he has to fight to get his research back, if he has to fight these rebels to get to have the only purpose he’s ever felt, he’s going to do it from beyond the empire’s control. It’s a concept that stretches out in its vastness before him, something he hasn’t been able to contemplate ever, really, but certainly not for many years.

The warmth in his heart expands, and when he envisions the future, for the first time he truly wonders about the possibilities. What he might discover, what he might *enjoy*. It will be a struggle, but he hopes -

 _Oh._ He remembers the word. Paul has _hope_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to @pencilguin for beta reading chapters 1-7 until I decided to throw caution to the wind and just publish the rest! And thank you to the MU fans who caused me to have any interest in the MU in the first place until I decided to write half a novel's worth of story about it. <33333 
> 
> Let me know what you thought!


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